


The Dam's Prayer

by Cuptivate



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse of Power, Alternate Universe - Erebor Reclaimed, Dwarves in Erebor, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Khuzdul, Some Years after BOFA, Upstairs-Downstairs, Who does all the work?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-03-29 00:14:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 65,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13915278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cuptivate/pseuds/Cuptivate
Summary: The great Kingdom Under the Mountain has been reclaimed and King Thorin's rule has brought peace and prosperity to the region once more.The mountain is bustling with dwarrow that have come from all over Arda to make it their home and work their craft and do their trade as they have yearned to be doing for over a century.But who does all the cleaning? Who does all the washing?This story explores the life of dwarrow that have not learned a craft and find life rather hard, even in the glory of Erebor.----------------------------------------------------------------------------The rating has been changed to 'Explicit' for Chapters 11 and 12. A summary of those two chapters is offered at the beginning of Chapter 13 for anyone who wishes to skip them.





	1. A Dam's Prayer

**Author's Note:**

> I do love visuals and have created a Pinterest page where I plonk my inspirations:  
> https://www.pinterest.com.au/cuptivate/?eq=cuptivate&etslf=3927

= - = - =

It was late and you were dead on your feet.

 

You had staggered back to your room, yawning all the way, barely able to keep your eyes open.

 

You were too tired to bother lighting a candle; you just pulled at the clasps that held your dirty outer tunic to loosen it, removed your dusty work cap and kicked off your worn boots – dimly wondering why it took you a few more steps than normal to reach the bed.

 

Crawling onto the mattress that didn't smell like the flower scent you liked - you used the slightly wilted flowers from the beautiful arrangements that were brought in to decorate the office of Izrikruk Azlâdu Nathi, the Master of the office of the Marshal of the Court of the Kingdom Under the Mountain, dried them and sew them into sachets made of leftover rags.

You frowned, but your brain was too tired to unravel that mystery just now, you decided.

 

Your arms were painfully heavy from lifting heavy sheets and maneuvering them through the mangle press all previous night and then spending all day polishing heavy silver tableware and candelabras. Flopping down face first on the rather soft mattress you sighed; you really were tired if you thought your gravel and straw filled mattress was soft, you drowsily mused.

 

"Mahal, hear my prayer," you mumbled, voice scratchy from not having spoken for several days, "I thank you for the stone over my head and under my feet. I ask you to continue to watch over our good King and his family and the line of Durin. Keep them hale and happy. If I ever have to polish another piece of silver I think I will scream but if that is your plan for me then so be it. If it means Nathi won't notice me and I escape Vira's fate, I'll take it gladly. Preserve her and her pebble, wherever they may be now. I ask nothing for myself other than maybe a bowl of hot water to wash my face in the morning. It would be nice to be a little bit clean. I have long given up hope for a chance to bath or a change of clothing. But give me one nice day every once in a while, I beg you, and a smile from someone, anyone, or I'm not sure I can do this much longer. Not even for the glory of Erebor." Your voice broke at the end, you were fighting off tears. "I hope Amad has woken in your halls now. She'll be happy with Adad and Olwe. They say our loved ones see our lives. Please, please don't let them see mine. They'd be so worried to see me like this." You sniffled, missing your family dreadfully. "May your hair stay thick and your beard continue to grow, my Maker. Good night."

 

And then, from one moment to the next, you fell into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.

 

 

 

= - = - =

 

 

 

Dwalin stared at the dam next to him. He had heard someone come in, waking him from his ever light sleep, his hand immediately reaching for the axe under his pillow, ready to strike down the uninvited intruder.

 

Dimly, he saw her outline in the dark room, noticed her staggering, her toeing off her boots.

 

First he thought she was drunk, the ale giving her the courage to make an advance on him, and he felt amused and a little bit flattered; it wasn't something that happened every day, certainly not to an old and gruff dwarf like him, and he was already preparing himself to courteously let her down.

 

But then she began to pray.

 

His eyebrows shot up at her first words, mouth curling into an involuntary smile.

 

She must be one of the umzâr, he mused, somehow having mistaken his room in the Guard’s Quarters for her own, which would be a few levels farther down.

When she mentioned Nathi, however, he frowned deeply. He did not like what the dam in his bed insinuated about the Marshal of the Court, not at all.

 

Something pulled on his heart strings when she asked for a bowl of hot water, of all things, to at least _wash her face_. Shaking his head in the darkness, he closed his eyes with a sigh.

 

Nobody in Erebor should have to wish for that. Things were dreadfully amiss down at Nathi’s azlâdu, he realized, if the little dam had to ask the Maker for such a thing, and he very much intended to be having a very close look at the situation.

 

The dam sobbed when mentioning her family and he held his breath, almost reaching out to wrap a comforting arm around her shoulders.

She whispered the last few words and before Dwalin had time to blink a few more times her deep breaths told him that she was vast asleep.

 

 

 

= - = - =


	2. Downstairs Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life downstairs comes to light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was too long to post in one go, so Part One today, Part Two over the weekend :)

= - = - =

 

 

 

 

When you woke the next morning you felt like a hammer had struck you down.

 

Sluggishly you wiped a hand over the drool patch you had left on the sheets, groaning when you slowly turned on to your back, stretching your sore body. You were still so very tired, even though it somehow felt like you slept long.

 

Your tummy growled and you remembered that you hadn't eaten anything since breakfast the day before. You sighed, your hand gripping the fur that was wrapped around your shoulders.

 

The warm, soft fur.

 

With a jolt you sat up. _Fur?_

 

You had no fur in your bed.

 

You had no fur in your room.

 

You looked around with a start, taking in the comfortable bed, the fire place, the multitude of weapon’s stands and the work desk on the other side of the room, overflowing with parchment. _This was not your room!_

 

Panicking you scrambled off the bed. What happened to you?

 

You looked down at yourself. You were still fully clothed, apart from your boots, which were on the floor next to the bed, the very comfortable bed, generously stacked with pillows, blankets and furs. You grabbed the boots, stepping into them in a flurry, doing up the clasps on your outer tunic at the same time with fumbling fingers.

 

You didn't even take the time to look around, running from the room, out into the corridor and down the hallway, ignoring the curious looks from some guards on your way.

 

Making your way down the levels you cursed yourself. _Foolish, foolish dam_! How could you have mistaken that room for yours! It was in the same place, yes, but up in the first level, in the Guard’s Quarters, not far from the Royal Wing, several levels away from where the umzâr lived.

 

How had you even gotten here? What had you done! _Mahal, why? Why?_

 

Nearly five years you were in Erebor, after having arrived from the Iron Hills. You had tried so hard to be invisible in the newly reclaimed Kingdom Under the Mountain.

Now it was already quite late in the day, you noticed, so many dwarrow up and going about their business. You pushed through the crowd to get to the corridor that let down to the lower section where the umzâr were residing; praying Nathi hadn't noticed you were missing. With a frown you noticed that the guards that were normally stationed at the mouth of the corridor where absent.

 

Smoothing down your thick wheat coloured hair and straightening your filthy clothes you tried to even your breathing. It would be fine, you told yourself with fake optimism, _it would be fine_. You'll just say some noble ordered you to clean up some mess on the floor in a side chamber of the Great Entrance Hall and nobody would be any wiser.

You’d be keeping your head down and bow and avert your eyes when Nathi questioned you and you would lie convincingly.

It would be fine.

 

You slowed your jog to a brisk walk before you rounded the last corner to Nathi’s office, which was right where the corridor forked into two, one leading to the area where the umzâr’deshnâr lived, the other where the umzâr’idshân - including you - lived. When you made it around the corner, your steps came to an abrupt halt, and you were staring at the Royal Guards.

 

A long line of umzâr were there as well, whispering to each other. You slotted next to Glōa, a dam around your age, from the Iron Hills, like you. You had become friends of sorts, even though Nathi did his best to discourage friendships amongst his umzâr.

"What happened?" you asked quietly.

 

Glōa looked at you with wide eyes. "Nathi got arrested in the middle of the night. The guards have been here since then. The Guard Captain and some of his soldiers are looking over Nathi's paperwork and are interviewing people, it seems. Do you think it has to do with Vira?" She asked in a hushed tone.

 

You shrugged. "I don't know." There had been talk, and you might have known a bit more than others, as Vira and you had shared shifts in the chimney flutes for a long time and you had snuck into her room some nights to bring her extra food, but other than that you were just as clueless as everyone else.

 

You were waiting for several hours, sitting along the walls of the corridor, inbetween your fellow umzâr. All of you were absolutely gobsmacked when the kitchens delivered bread and cheese and strong tea, handed out by some very resolute dams, which clearly were from the upper levels, looking nicely put together, clean and finely dressed.

 

Raising an eyebrow in silent confusion you exchanged a look with Glōa, hungrily digging into your food without complaint.

 

Finally, it was your turn. The guard at the door motioned to you and held it open for you while you walked into the room that was Nathi's office. You dimly made out the four dwarrow sitting around the large desk. You swallowed hard when the door closed behind you with a bang, suddenly feeling anxious.

 

"Come closer," a deep voice ordered.

 

You did, wringing your hands in your tunic, bowing your head and keeping your eyes firmly on the ground.

 

"What's your name, lass?" a second voice asked, a friendly voice, but you couldn't shake your nerves, so you didn't lift your eyes; besides, Nathi had very much instilled in you to not look up. Ever.

You failed to do it once, in the very beginning. Spending months in the chimney flutes clearing soot taught you that lesson well.

 

"Oifa, Mylord," you whispered, focusing on the stone floor.

 

You could hear them sigh.

 

A third voice spoke up, a dam's voice. "We understand by now that Nathi has ordered you all not to mention your proper family ties and to keep your eyes averted, but we would ask you to forget Nathi's orders and introduce yourself properly. As is the Khazâd way. Please. You have nothing to fear from us."

 

Hesitantly, you lifted your eyes - and you recoiled in shock when they set upon Dís, the Princess of Erebor, the King's sister. You bobbed a deep curtsey. "Your Highness," you breathed, shaking slightly.

 

"Yes," the Princess said wryly, "And you are?"

 

You licked your lips. "Oifa, daughter of Ove, son of Ovdari, your Highness." You clenched your fists, holding your breath while you dared to lift your eyes and look at her. You would not disgrace your family. You had been raised right. You bowed respectfully from the waist, holding eye contact.

 

The Princess looked at you appraisingly, a frown on her face. "Ovdari? The Seneschal of Erebor under King Thror?"

 

"Yes, your Highness," you whispered.

 

Dís sighed deeply, closing her eyes for a moment. "Tell me, Oifa, how is it that a dam from a good house ends up cleaning in Nathi’s azlâdu until she's as good as ready to collapse from exhaustion?"

 

You shrugged. What were you supposed to say? It's not like you chose to do that.

"After Smaug ... Ovdari didn't make it out of Erebor. And Ove, my Adad, had burns so bad that he barely survived the journey to the Iron Hills. He never really recovered. He couldn't work, was on a small pension for the rest of his life, thanks to the generosity of the Iron Hills. He met my mother though, Olwyn. They were each other's One. They had me and my brother Olwe. Adad died when I was not of age yet. And Olwe - he joined the soldiers, but he was killed on a patrol. Orcs. After Adad was gone we lost his pension and without Olwe's earnings ... it was hard. My Adad had taught me all that he could, but Amad was not from a noble house. She ... she was a washerwoman. She cared for him, and after ... well, her and I ... we worked in the kitchens. She died the year after Erebor was reclaimed. I ... There is nothing back in the Iron Hills. I wanted to see where my Adad came from. See the golden lights. He always spoke about them. But I have no skills, never learned a trade. Peeling potatoes doesn't count for much, I'm afraid." you mumbled. "When I arrived I was brought straight to Izrikruk Nathi. He has ever made it clear that this is as good as it gets, for the likes of me."

 

"I see." Dís eyes were sharp. "And has he ever ... made you an offer to advance yourself ... for certain favours?"

 

You frowned. It was not a secret that Nathi had been a nasty piece of a dwarf and gave preferential treatment to the umzâr that served on the upper levels. In fact everyone that served on the upper levels had gotten their position because they saw fit to ... advance themselves. Everybody down here knew. You were sure the nobles upstairs had figured it out on their own what with all the questioning they had done since the early hours, if they hadn’t already known before that.

 

Giving a small nod, you finally let your eyes wander to the three other dwarrow in the room. You recognized Lord Balin, the Head Advisor of the King, a dam you didn't know, with a glorious red beard, and the Guard Captain, Lord Dwalin, his bulk dwarfing his chair. You had only ever seen them from afar once a year at Durin’s Day, when Nathi had allowed his umzâr to be shepherded into one of the upper galleries by a select group of guards, making sure you all knew you were too filthy and unworthy of getting anywhere closer to the celebrations.

 

"I presume you have not considered going down that path?" Dís asked quietly.

 

You resolutely shook your head. "No," you said firmly, "I would not ... could not ... ever." Faltering, you shook your head again.

 

 

= - = - =

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khuzdul thanks to the Dwarrow Scholar - and my own wranglings  
> umzâr: workers  
> umzâr’deshnâr: supreme workers  
> umzâr’idshân: lesser workers  
> Khazâd: Dwarrow  
> azlâdu: dominion  
> Izrikruk: Master  
> The Office of the Marshal of the Court of the Queen of England is an actual thing and dedicated to the organizing of guests and dignitaries. For my story I have given the Master (Izrikruk) of said office (azlâdu) also the responsibility to oversee the domestic servants.  
> Seneschal: A term that was used in medieval times for the Majordomo of a great house: he would have been in charge for domestic affairs and the administration of servants.


	3. Downstairs Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The questioning continues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone, for reading and commenting and bookmarking. Makes for happy writing xx

"Tell us about Vira," Balin said softly.

 

Hesitating, you said slowly. "Vira ... is a widow. Her husband was a weaver in the Grey Mountains. She ... had a good life. Before. But knows no trade. Her husband's brother had made advances and she decided to leave for Erebor. She is not ... used to physical labour. It is hard on her. I cannot blame her if she did ... think it a good idea ... to ..." You faltered. Just because you knew you would never go down that path of extra favours for Nathi didn’t mean you felt it your right to judge those that did.

 

"There is a rumor she has a pebble," Dwalin cut in with his gravelly voice, "From Nathi."

 

You nodded. "Y-yes."

 

"Where is Vira?" Dís asked.

 

Startled, you look from one face to the next. Was this ... was this what it was all about? A missing dam and a missing pebble? Did they think you ... would have anything to do with that? You shook your head. "I do not know. She has not been seen since almost ... Durin’s Day ... after the celebrations."

 

"How then," Dwalin spoke again, "would you know about her pebble?"

 

"I don't," you confessed, "Not really. I am not a healer. And I've never seen the pebble. But she ... had been ill ... in the mornings. Couldn't keep food down. Looked tired. Even more ... than normal. And Izrikruk Nathi ... he kept her apart from us. She got the late shifts, down by the light chambers or on ash duty. Where one usually works alone."

 

"We have been told you gave her your rations," Balin said with a small smile.

 

Great, you thought, so much for being sneaky, wondering who had seen you and glad at the same time it had not been Nathi. You lifted your chin. "I am strong, I can go without much better than she could." Then you looked at your feet. "I urged her to go to the Healers. She would have gotten herbs to help her in the mornings and better food. But she didn't. She was afraid that ... well, about her reputation. And I think she was also afraid that the pebble would be taken away from her. That Izrikruk Nathi would take the pebble away from her. And then, one morning, she was gone. And nobody has seen her since. I do not know where she is. But I hope she is alright. And her pebble. Maybe she went back to the Grey Mountains."

 

They were silent for a long time. You saw them exchanging looks. Clearly, they were having a wordless conversation, but you didn't know them enough to presume to guess what about.

As long as they believed you.

 

"I'd like you to tell us what happened to you from the moment you arrived at the Gates of Erebor," Dwalin said firmly, "Every detail, leave nothing out."

 

You blinked. "Why?" you asked, wincing immediately at your insolence.

 

Dwalin chuckled, waving you off when you opened your mouth to begin apologizing. "We need to know. Things are not right, down here, and in order to fix them, we need to understand where exactly they are off," he explained calmly, his deep voice warm.

 

Nodding slowly, you rubbed your hands together nervously.

And then you told them.

Told them how the gatemaster would take the details of everyone arriving. How families and anyone with a trade or fighting skills were sent off one way, while everyone who had none of those things and was looking fit enough to work was sent down to Nathi. How Nathi separated siblings and friends to place them in single rooms no bigger than broom cupboards and how he mixed both dams and dwarrow that didn’t know each other in large share-rooms. How Nathi took all personal belongings and handed them to various guards loyal to him for 'safe-keeping'. How new umzâr were sent straight to do the long, hard shifts at the chimney flutes 'to break them in' as Nathi had called it. How there was never enough food, and never enough sleep. How everybody had only one piece of clothing and how the plumbing hardly ever worked and if it did the water was cold. How you would like to wash your clothes. How any that spoke up had odd accidents or came down with illnesses that none of them had ever heard of, which left them weak and unwell for weeks, their spirits broken by the time they managed to get on their feet again. How Nathi allowed some of the guards to brush close by the dams when passing them in the corridors, and never did anything when they used their hands for a little pinch or a grab. How most umzâr didn't mind working hard for the Kingdom, and just a little acknowledgment and a little more care would go a long way. That you felt double your age. How it would be nice to have a day off maybe once a year. You hadn't even seen the famous markets yet, let alone Dale.

When you finished you felt quite exhausted.

You hadn't spoken this much in a long time.  You felt their eyes bore into you, especially Dwalin's.

 

Dís let out an angry hiss at the end of your explanations. "Why?" she asked, her voice angry, "Why has none of you come to lodge a complaint against Nathi? Against the guards in question? You, Oifa, are eloquent enough, why have you not come to the King and asked for his help?"

 

Instinctively you took a step back, but then you bristled.

"How? When? I work three double shifts in a row, at the end of them I hardly remember my name, let alone how to address a King. I am not familiar with his Majesty's schedule and I would assume that whenever I would show my face in the upper levels during day time the various noble councilmen and guildmasters he lends his ear to would have a thing or two to say about me trying to take away their time, filthy and ragged as I look. And the Royal Guards will hardly pass on a message from the likes of me, besides, Izrikruk Nathi’s guards would never let one of us pass to go upstairs, unless we receive specific orders. And I don't even know when his Majesty holds Open Court and I’m not exactly sure where the throne room is, because the only time I’ve been that far up in the mountain was at Durin’s Day for his Majesty’s speech. And I _should_ not have to go and lodge a complaint. Nobody should be treated the way we are being treated. Nobody should have the power to treat anyone like that. Not in Erebor. Not anywhere. We are good people. I am a good person, a decent dam. I may have nothing else, but I have that."

You shook, suddenly horrified by your outburst. Taking in a shuddering breath you closed your eyes.

That's it, you thought; you've just shown that you have no manners and no respect. They'll be kicking you out the mountain before sunrise.

Weakly, you began, "Forgive me, I-"

 

"Apologies are way too late here, Oifa, I believe," Dís interrupted quietly. There was no venom in her voice and her face was calm. It was confusing; surely she was furious with you. You made a mental note that you somehow would have to improve your skills in reading other people, because clearly you were lacking in that regard.

 

Licking your dry lips you couldn't help but ask "What will happen to me now?"

 

"Nothing," Dís said, "Nothing will happen to you, Oifa, other than that you will be looked after as it should have been done from the very moment you stepped inside this mountain. You and everybody else who ended up in Nathi's most questionable care. Óin, the healer, is next door, he will be looking you over - just as he has been looking everyone else over - and if he gives the all clear, I would like you to help Fárni." She gestured at the red-headed dam next to her. "Fárni is Lord Glóin's wife and she will be taking over for Nathi for the time being. And I'd like you to help her. Do you think you can do that?"

 

You startled. "Me?" you asked confused. Dís smiled and nodded.

"But there are plenty others that are older than I and that have been here longer-" you protested weakly.

 

"I think you are exactly the right dam for the job," the Princess said, her tone leaving no room for argument.

 

 

 

= - = - =

 

 

 


	4. Dwalin's Mood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dwalin's thoughts on things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for kudos and comments xx.  
> I like visuals and do a lot of research on Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com.au/cuptivate/  
> This story now has its own board.

= - = - =

 

 

 

Dwalin sat in his chair in Nathi’s office, between Dís and Glóin’s wife, his brother Balin on Dís’ other side. And while his mood had been dour for many hours by now it kept plummeting with every new umzâr that stood before them, each looking dead on their feet, all too thin and with gaunt faces. And all clearly afraid.

Dwalin clenched his fists more than once that his knuckles cracked, earning him a reproachful look from his brother and a startled cringe from the respective umzâr in the room.

And then, when he thought his mood couldn’t get any more miserable, it did exactly that with every word Miss Oifa said.

 

After hearing the dam’s prayer the night before he had wrapped the fur around her thin frame as soon as she was asleep and immediately left the room, making his way deep into the mountain, to Nathi’s office.

 

He knew the dwarf: the Master of the Office of the Marshal of the Court was present at every meeting that had to with incoming visitors, dignitaries, celebrations and the like, receiving all the necessary information to be rostering and organizing the umzâr in his care to see to the guests’ lodgings and needs. A small number of guards were permanently stationed in Nathi’s azlâdu, and while they were strictly speaking under Dwalin’s command, they were Nathi’s to place as he saw fit. Apart from the minimal interaction during those meetings and the occasional replacement of guards, Dwalin had nothing to do with the former scribe from Ered Luin, in fact, even though he didn’t particularly like the tall, podgy dwarf with the two long braids in his beard he had always been under the impression that he filled his position diligently

 

The guards he passed that far in the mountain were surprisingly ... twitchy; a fact that made Dwalin highly suspicious. He was used to being feared; he was also used to startle guards, checking up on most of them at irregular intervals, and especially the young ones showed their nerves with him around. There was nothing wrong with that and secretly Dwalin quite enjoyed giving them a fright - he did have a reputation to uphold after all.

This was different though: he could literally feel the panic emanating from Nathi’s guards in the corridor leading towards the Izrikruk Azlâdu’s office.

 

Reaching Nathi's door, he knocked once briefly, not bothering to wait for an answer but marching right in, going from startled to furious within the blink of an eye when he saw the crying dam pinned against the wall by Nathi, his hands moving up and down her bare backside.

 

Nathi was in a draughty cell in the dungeons mere minutes after. The King was woken and received a report, barely containing his wrath, wanting to go down to the cell himself and give the dwarf a good shake. Dís was also woken and took the sobbing dam into her care, bringing her to Óin for a checkup and to dose her with a calming tonic.

And after a long night of going over Nathi's paperwork - in which he referred to his umzâr as ‘lifeware’ - and an even longer following day listening to the almost five dozen dwarrow and dams working in his azlâdu, all of them too thin, too dirty, all of them avoiding their eyes and discrediting their fathers, she came in - the little dam that had stumbled into Dwalin’s room the night before.

He recognized her immediately even though he had barely seen her shape in the dark, making a quick sign to the others, who already had heard all about the dam's prayer.

 

Oifa.

The dress she wore may have been blue at some stage but it was impossible to tell - it was no more than a grey-ish rag that looked like it was held together only by equally grey coloured patches that had been sewn into it to mend any rips and holes. It hung off the dam’s thin shoulders like a sack. It was too short and ended half-way down her shins, allowing the view of boots that didn’t really have the right to be called such: the top leather on one foot had a hole that showed her big toe and the outsole was worn thin and hung off in parts. Her outer tunic was held together by flimsy clasps and could have stood on its own with the amount of dirt that clung to it.

The pallor of her gaunt face was sick - making the dirty streaks on her cheeks even more visible - and she had dark shadows under eyes which darted around constantly in a nervous fashion, even while averted to the stone floor. She had no curves whatsoever and if Dwalin wouldn’t have known better he could have mistaken her for a Mannish child; like the other umzâr they had seen before her she was severely underweight.

Her hair appeared as grey as her whole appearance, although it probably was a similar colour to that of Fili, the kingdom’s heir with the wheat coloured hair. Oifa’s was braided in a single tight braid to the back of her head and almost completely hidden under a dirty cap, only her eyebrows and the wisp of beard on her cheeks allowed a guess at its colour.

She wrung her chafed and work worn hands in the folds of her tunic and stood in a slightly sagged sort of way, hanging her head low. Her whole air was one of fear, utter exhaustion and despondency.

 

Oifa, daughter of Olwe, son of Ovdari.

What a surprise to hear that the granddaughter of Ovdari would be in Erebor. Ovdari had been the Seneschal under Thror, and as such in charge of the domestic affairs and the administration of umzâr.

Dwalin remembered the old dwarf well. Ovdari had been very strict, putting great emphasis on punctuality, frugality, order and hard work.

Dwalin couldn't even count how many times he had gotten in trouble with the formidable Seneschal with his pristine white beard as a rambunctious dwarfling.

Him and Thorin both.

They may even have polished silver and scrubbed the corridors from the deep mines once or twice. Or more.

Dwalin grinned a little at the fond memories.

 

Under Thrór the position of the Marshal of the Court did not exist in the same way as it did now, back then the Ladies of the Court were dedicated to the organizing of guests and dignitaries.

How Nathi even came to his office Dwalin couldn’t say. Somehow the dwarf, who had been no more than a scribe on the small council in Ered Luin, now was in charge for close to sixty umzâr - and did not only do a bad job by the looks of it, but a horrific one.

Ovdari, a most honourable dwarf with a reputation above reproach, would have been mortified - and bitterly disappointed in the Kingdom for having failed the umzâr, whom he had worked hard, true, but also treated with great fairness and consideration and had ever been highly protective of.

 

Especially since his granddaughter was in Erebor, working as umzâr’idshân; the fact alone that Nathi even made a distinction between his umzâr had Dwalin’s blood boil. That some of them would see no other option but to allow Nathi and his guards such despicable freedom in order to obtain mere basics like the right to bath regularly and better food had Dwalin chew on the insides of his cheeks. He could feel Dis’ irritation emanation from her; the princess equally unhappy about having completely overlooked that the umzâr in the Kingdom Under the Mountain were treated hardly any better than the slaves of Men.

 

Dwalin hid his grin when Oifa got over her initial shock of being in the presence of Royalty and fell into a rather charming curtsy for Dís, showing she had indeed been raised well, before treating them all to an equally enchanting bow.

 

All her information regarding Nathi was disconcerting, to say the least. And after Dwalin asked her to tell them all that had happened to her from the moment she arrived at the mountain, his already dour mood hit an all time low.

While the little dam was very guarded at first and chose her words carefully her overtired mind clearly didn’t quite keep up with her efforts of being diplomatic and bit by bit she revealed more and more hair-raising details about the life of the umzâr in Izrikruk Nathi’s azlâdu.

 

Oifa misunderstood Dís' anger, thinking it was directed at her.

Her little outburst was ... cute.

She was right. She was a good person, a decent dam. She was not afraid to work hard, she clearly had more brains than she was being given credit for and she had a big heart.

And Nathi had not managed to break her.

 

She would be doing great working alongside Fárni to sort out this mess.

 

 

 

= - = - =

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khuzdul thanks to the Dwarrow Scholar - and my own wranglings  
> umzâr: workers  
> umzâr’deshnâr: supreme workers  
> umzâr’idshân: lesser workers  
> Khazâd: Dwarrow  
> azlâdu: dominion  
> Izrikruk: Master  
> The Office of the Marshal of the Court of the Queen of England is an actual thing and dedicated to the organizing of guests and dignitaries. For my story I have given the Master (Izrikruk) of said office (azlâdu) also the responsibility to oversee the domestic servants.  
> Seneschal: A term that was used in medieval times for the Majordomo of a great house: he would have been in charge for domestic affairs and the administration of servants.


	5. Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oifa has hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again, lovely people, for kudos and comments xx.  
> I like visuals and do a lot of research on Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com.au/cuptivate  
> This story now has its own board with pins to show how I see Oifa, Ovdari, Nathi, and some pins that might give indications of what happens further down the story ;)

= - = - =

After you were dismissed from the interview from Princess Dís you were checked over by the healer, Óin. He was grumbling all the time while he prodded you, looked at your tongue and into your ears, listened to your lungs and your heart. He told you that you were too thin and needed food and sleep.

You couldn’t help but wonder briefly if you would have a chance to work as a healer if you just needed to state the obvious, but dismissed it quickly, chastising yourself: Óin was being kind in his own gruff sort of way, and clearly unhappy with the state of the umzâr he had to look over all day.

 

After the healer dismissed you a Royal Guard accompanied you to the umzâr's hall, where you found most of your colleagues whispering anxiously, digging into a hearty stew that was brought up from the kitchens. You were even served proper ale, not the very watery, tasteless version you all had come to loathe and still drank greedily for want of an alternative.

 

When you were done scooping the last bit of stew out of your bowl with a thick slice of fresh bread, barely able to contain your content moan at the wonderful taste, another Royal Guard approached your table, bowing to you - which made your fellow umzâr gasp and giggle at the same time with shock - and introduced himself as Jarspur, addressing you very formally as 'Miss Oifa', explaining that he had been selected by Lord Dwalin to accompany you to Lord Dori, the Royal Tailor, where you were to receive new clothing and meet with Lady Fárni to make arrangements for clothing for the rest of the umzâr.

 

Before anybody had a chance to pick their chins off the floor, you had climbed off the bench and followed Jarspur. The seasoned guard led you through the mountain into the upper floors and through vast hallways and corridors until you reached Erebor’s famous main market.

 

Your feet slowed every now and then without meaning to, looking in awe at high vaulted ceilings and beautiful carvings in stone walls and columns. Jarspur stopped a few times to patiently wait for you while you were staring in wonder at the sights around you. When you mumbled an apology, hurrying to catch up, he smiled friendly at you. "No need to apologize, Miss Oifa," he assured you, "'tis a sight to behold."

Entering the market however, was thoroughly overwhelming: so many sounds and smells and so many things to buy. Shop was next to shop, many displaying their wares on tables and stalls out front, containing goods from the basic to the exotic and exquisite. The colourful displays of the most gorgeous wares from soft fabrics to silk threat and gems, silverware, leatherware, paper, inks and weaponry took your breath away.

Most would be forever out of your reach, but it was nice to be able to look at them for once: it would give nourishment to your dreams for months to come.

But apart from being an invasion to all your senses: the market was packed with dwarrow, going about their business. And all of them were dressed immaculately. You became painfully aware of your own disheveled and dirty state and hung your head and avoided their curious looks in shame.

Jarspur seemed to feel your discomfort and placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, steering you through the parting crowd.

 _They probably think I’m being arrested_ , you thought dimly and that certainly did nothing to help with your apprehension.

 

Arriving at a large shop front, rather splendidly decorated with gold and red velvet your feet slowed and you almost froze to the spot. No way you could enter a place such as this! But Jarspur held the ornate door for you and propelled you inside with a gentle, but firm hand in your back.

 

Lord Dori's shop was- ... there were no words, really.

 

You had never seen anything like it.

 

The very well-groomed dwarf with quite magnificent silver hair and immaculate braids looked you up and down with a heavy sigh and tutted at the state of your unwashed and unkempt appearance and your dress, sharing a sad look with Lady Fárni, who smiled at you encouragingly.

 

Before you knew what was happening you were standing on a pedestal where Lord Dori took your measurements, and then sitting in a very plush chair, sipping a sweet, fragrant tea and nibbling on delicate little pastries which the Royal Tailor kept piling on your plate despite your feeble protests, while he and Lady Fárni discussed fabrics and this season's style and spoke at length about cuts and styles that could be suitable for your work.

 

You were asked to list the many different duties of the umzâr, to determine what type of clothing would be suitable. Obediently you told them about dusting, sweeping, mopping, about ash duty, meaning to clean out the many fire places in the Kingdom and bringing the ash down to a collection point behind the kitchens, from where it was delivered as fertilizer to several farming settlements in the area.

You told them about laundry work and how the new clothing should be appropriate for working with boiling hot water, where sheets and undergarments had to be pounded with soap made of lye, which not only irritated the umzâr’s hands but also wasn’t too good for their clothing, which unavoidably always was getting splashed. How specialized washing of clothing made of brocades, silks or wool was wearisome and nerve wracking at the same time.

 

The more you spoke, the more Dori and Fárni shared looks you couldn’t even begin to interpret.

So you just soldiered on, telling them about mending duty, which was spent in long, tedious hours alone in dimly lit, unheated rooms that had your hands near freezing even in summer and you quietly asked whether Dori could kindly include fingerless gloves to help overcome that problem.

You explained how furniture and silver had to be rubbed and polished, how linens were pressed in the mangle room, usually requiring teams of two umzâr as the damp sheets were just too heavy to lift for one on its own.

.

How a face mask would help when the large blown glass orbs had to be cleaned; the very same glass orbs that, when filled with a special gas mixture, artificially lit Erebor with the beautiful golden light the Kingdom Under the Mountain was famous for. The golden lights had incredible long life hours, but eventually they dimmed and that’s when the umzâr were charged with cleaning the glass orbs thoroughly before they would be filled again by skilled craftsmen to light the mountain once more. It was difficult work; the glass orbs were heavy and the work stations were in unventilated chambers with low ceilings. The gas left a residue that made throats itch and it did make hair and beards brittle and fall out when it came into contact with it. Most of you wrapped discarded rags around your mouths and chins but you couldn’t help but stress that a unified, proper solution would be much appreciated.

 

By that time Lord Dori’s lips were cinched in a thin line and you ducked your head and clenched your hands in your lap, but still told about the dirtiest and most perilous task, the one Nathi had deemed for newcomers to break them in and as punishment for any that dared speak up: the clearing of the chimney flutes that led the heat from the forged into various areas of the mountain. There were harnesses that got caught in the long tunics and made work rather painful in the nether regions, and the chimneys were meant to be closed off for the duration of the work, but that was not always the case: suffocating was a real threat and it happened regularly that umzâr were left hanging in their harness after they fainted before they could be dragged out and revived.

 

Neither Dori nor Fárni said anything when you were done and you sunk even deeper into your chair, worried that you had done more complaining than explaining, but then Dori leaned forward and patted your hand. “Now, now, Miss Oifa, there’s no need to look so concerned,” he said warmly and poured you another cup of tea, “We are so very glad that you are here to help us to set things right for the umzâr.”

 

Then he proceeded making quick sketches of dresses and tunics in different lengths, of pants and full body overalls, and drew you into a conversation about the pros and cons of detachable sleeves and collars, as well as the make of aprons and different type of work caps and masks. Hooks at the belt would help attaching things like the lamb’s wool dusters so the hands would be free to do other work.

Tunics were to be for the dwarrow and would not pose a problem regarding sizes, and dresses would have a built-in-belt for cinching at the waist, to make them adjustable for the female umzâr. There would be linen clothes and cotton flannel and Dori also mentioned a variety of socks, stockings and undergarments, which had your cheeks turn red in embarrassment; you had never discussed such things with a male.

 

Just before your tummy was about to bust with tea and pastries and your head spinning out of control with information about fabric and double stitching, Fárni declared that you both should be heading back to attempt to bring some order into rosters and work plans. Jarspur accompanied you back to Nathi’s office where you were introduced to Aggi, a young assistant to Lord Gloin, Royal Treasurer and Lady Fárni’s husband. The young dwarf with the thick brown hair and braids had already begun going over Nathi’s books, comparing his expenses, wages and purchases with focused determination and pursed lips.

 

The rest of the afternoon was spent organizing for groups of umzâr to be taken to the hot springs for a bath and writing new rosters.

Lady Fárni was a fine dam indeed, with not an ounce of arrogance about her, in fact, she was so practical and no-nonsense that she reminded you much of your dear Amad. It made your heart a bit heavy and your hands shook while you helped her figuring out Nathi’s set of keys that Lord Dwalin had handed to her. She gave you a friendly little pat on the arm but didn’t bother you with questions, probably worried you’d break into tears most unsuitable for your station.

 

You still didn’t know what happened to Nathi - or Vira - and you were too afraid to ask. Already you were in a position you never dreamed of being in. It was too frightful to imagine you’d annoy them so much that they’d chuck you back down into the misery of what had been the last six years of your life and simply would pick any other umzâr to do the task you were being given now.

 

It was not easy to devise better cleaning schedules, allowing for rest times and time to eat. There were not enough umzâr to be doing all the respective tasks and you gnawed your lip nervously when Farni declared that the separation between umzâr’idshân and umzâr’deshnâr was to be abandoned, and any work to be carried out on the upper floors was to be filled with teams containing members of both such previous description.

Not much else was said about how the umzâr’deshnâr had received their slightly better occupation, and you were glad of it; but you also worried about what they would say, considering all of them had degraded themselves in one way or another to get a slightly better station. Wouldn’t they be right to grumble about the fact that their status was now to be no different than those of the umzâr that had refused Nathi’s advances?

 

That evening when Jarspur and another Royal Guard escorted you safely back to your room form the hot springs with your group of umzâr, all of you dams, wearing a simple, but clean tunic provided for by Lord Dori, you crawled into your bed and smiled.

You were still bone tired but for the first time in a long time your empty tummy wasn’t gnawing at your spine and there was hope for the future.

 

“Thank you, my Maker,” you managed to mumble sleepily, before your eyes fell shut, and you slept with a smile on your face.

= - = - =

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In all the fanfic there is never anyone to mention who does the work. Erebor would be a huge place, requiring people dedicated to the cleaning, washing etc. The jobs Oifa describes kind of tie in with that and are a combination of what happened during the Industrialization with its shocking work safety issues, the likes of Downton Abbey and Upstairs/Downstairs and my own humble experiences regarding cleaning/washing etc.  
> The golden lights Oifa describes are my take on how dwarrow would use gasses (which they would know a lot about considering they're experts in mining) and I can easily see them fashioning something like the golden lights by combining certain gasses. As our modern day energy-saving light bulbs and fluorescent lights contain mercury and since inhaling mercury is generally more dangerous than absorbing it through skin I went with that - even though I'm told combining mercury with any other gas is not realistic, but this is fanfic for a reason ;) 
> 
> Khuzdul thanks to the Dwarrow Scholar - and my own wranglings  
> umzâr: workers  
> umzâr’deshnâr: supreme workers  
> umzâr’idshân: lesser workers  
> Khazâd: Dwarrow  
> azlâdu: dominion  
> Izrikruk: Master  
> The Office of the Marshal of the Court of the Queen of England is an actual thing and dedicated to the organizing of guests and dignitaries. For my story I have given the Master (Izrikruk) of said office (azlâdu) also the responsibility to oversee the domestic servants.  
> Seneschal: A term that was used in medieval times for the Majordomo of a great house: he would have been in charge for domestic affairs and the administration of servants.


	6. Reactions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Company's reaction to what happened so far

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you kindly for kudos and comments xx.  
> I like visuals and do a lot of research on Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com.au/cuptivate  
> This story has its own board with pins to show how I see Oifa, Ovdari, Nathi, and some pins that might give indications of what happens further down the story ;)

= - = - =

 

Prowling.  
That’s what people said Dwalin did when he walked the hallways and corridors of Erebor, looking for everything and anything that was not as it should be. He didn’t really care what people called it, he had done it in Ered Luin and he was doing it - and would continue to be doing it - in Erebor. That he had not picked up on the plight of the umzâr irked him beyond measure. And he was not alone.

The members of the Company and their families came together for dinner the evening after the whole affair of Nathi’s misconduct came to light. It was discussed in great detail what the frightened umzâr had revealed during their questioning; Miss Oifa’s words about the ‘welcome’ they received in Erebor had everybody in an uproar and Fárni and Dori added fuel to the heightened emotions when they told them the details about the umzâr’s work. Much of it hard, much of it tedious and boring, but much of it right-out dangerous.  
Thorin was seething in his seat at the head of the table, yet again barely holding himself back from storming into the dungeons and bludgeoning Nathi.

They all agreed that Nori was sorely missed - the thief come spymaster had returned to Ered Luin three years prior with Kili, to weed out some unrest amongst the population there that had opted against relocating to Erebor. Lack of leadership had some unsavoury characters take control, and nobody was better suited to fix the issue than Nori.  
Kili had taken the opportunity to join him and would remain in the East once Nori was ready to return to Erebor, working together with the Rangers for a while. His redhead elf by his side, of course, much to Thorin’s grumblings. And Fili was broadening his horizons in the Iron Hills, which was a good experience for the heir to the Kingdom Under the Mountain.  
Everybody felt that Fili, with his knack of easy conversation with common folk, Kili with his ability to make everybody feel comfortable with his easy smile and Nori with his canny ways of reading people would have picked up on Nathi’s indiscretions much sooner.

After the interviewing of the umzâr was done, Dwalin had briefly gone into the dungeons where Nathi was still in his cell, the high collar of his starched white shirt distinctly ruffled looking and his normally neatly oiled hair and long, thick twin beard braids askew, wailing about his unfair treatment and insisting that he had done nothing wrong. Dwalin had just snorted at that statement, thinking of little Miss Oifa’s prayer, and asked Nathi about Vira. The porky dwarf’s lips had clamped shut for a moment before he began sprouting nonsense about ungrateful dams and how they always demanded more than he was willing to give instead of doing their duty to Erebor, which meant working hard.  
Dwalin had left the cell without a word, slamming the door shut behind him.  
He so would have liked to properly interrogate the dwarf, but he had more pressing matters to tend to just yet, and Nathi wouldn’t be going anywhere.

Next Dwalin had summoned all the guards that worked in Nathi’s azlâdu. When they stood to attention before him he could tell from the expression on their faces that they knew well they were in trouble. Dwalin addressed them briefly, telling them that they were given the option to come forward if they felt they had discredited themselves or their duty in any way. If they did, he would hear them in private and do his best to find a merciful penance. Should he find out about their misgivings otherwise they’ll lose their braids and their position and would be kicked out the mountain by him personally; a disgrace to their families and friends.  
The majority immediately had come forward voluntarily. He had praised them for it. He had them write down every detail of the culpable neglect of their duties and then they were assigned to guard buckets and do latrine duty in the deepest mines of the mountain until Dwalin would feel satisfied with their remorse and humility.  
Those few that didn’t come forward immediately were reassigned and paired with veteran guards that had Dwalin’s trust and anything and everything that those ex-guards of Nathi did and said would remain under constant scrutiny for the time being. Dwalin had no doubt that if they had a questionable character, it would show sooner or later, and he’d hear about it. And if he did, the punishment of those guards would be swift and most unpleasant.  
New guards were stationed in the umzâr’s quarters, a good mix of seasoned warriors with battle experience and younglings. Dwalin made sure all of them were either husbands or siblings, dwarrow capable of showing some compassion and care to the umzâr, family-less as the majority of them were. Jarspur was a veteran of Azanulbizar and had worked with Dwalin in Ered Luin. The trustworthy dwarf was put in charge to keep order in the umzâr’s azlâdu and ensure their safety.

After that, Dwalin met Jarspur, Bifur and young Gimli at Nathi’s private quarters for a thorough – and he did mean thorough – search. They turned the small apartment and everything in it inside out, Bifur even searched along the stone walls and floors with his stone sense to see if there were any hidden crevices. The apartment, while small, was a surprise because of its inconsistencies; Dwalin mused later that, in a way, the place reflected Nathi’s character.  
The receiving room was kept neat and modestly furnished, as was the sitting room, to the point of almost looking rather scarce and … basic. Neither room contained anything valuable. The bedroom, however, was a different story entirely.  
“Mahal’s hairy balls,” Gimli exclaimed as he entered after Dwalin, eyes wide as saucers.  
Jarspur grunted at the young dwarf’s comment and shared a short amused glance with Dwalin before both their expressions soured as they took in the lavishly furnished room: a large four poster bed took up the majority of the space, covered with an almost obscene amount of pillows and blankets. Rich carpets were overlapping each other on the stone floor, all masterworks of silk, wool and metal-thread. Tapestries in the finest yarns adorned the walls. Dozens of candle holders were crafted from solid gold, an ancient brush and comb set at the dresser was clearly inlaid with Mithril and the mirror above the dresser was framed by emerald cut diamonds and rubies. A look into the wetroom showed polished obsidian, a bathtub carved from sodalite blue granite and silver faucets decorated with yellow sapphires.  
“Just a bit above the paygrade of a royal employee,” Dwalin mumbled, grimacing irately at the decadence.  
He called for Glóin who came with a young assistant named Aggi and began cataloguing all the luxurious items in order to find their origins. There was no question Nathi had not come by them via honest purchase or commission.  
Bifur was the one who discovered the hidden compartment in the wetroom which held several medicinal jars containing unidentified liquids and powders. Remembering that Oifa and several other umzâr had told about unusual weakness and illnesses amongst those that dared question Nathi’s conduct it was best to be cautious, Dwalin thought, left the jars unopened and sent them to Óin. Who better than the healer to identify the unknown substances?

At the Company dinner, Thorin eventually pushed his plate away and sat back in his chair. “Fárni,” he addressed the dam, “It is good to end this separation between the umzâr, but I want you to speak to those that consider themselves umzâr’deshnâr. They must understand that this is not a punishment and that nobody looks down on them for the choices they have made; on the contrary. Tell them we are glad to have them and their expertise upstairs. We count on them teaching the others the ropes.” Fárni nodded.  
The King turned to Dis. “How fares the dam Nathi assaulted?”  
“She’s shaken, but fine,” Dis responded, “She wished to return to work, to avoid gossip that no doubt would have flared up were she missing. Óin agreed that there was no point in trying to hold her back and so she’s with her fellow umzâr.” The healer nodded his agreement.  
“Thorin,” Bofur spoke up, looking unusually somber, “I don’t like what I’m hearing about the chimney flutes. It’s not a job someone with no training in harness work should be doing. And to think that the whole thing wasn’t coordinated with the forges ... it’s a miracle none of them has perished.”  
“What do you suggest?” the King asked, stroking his beard thoughtfully.  
“I think the cleaning of the chimney flutes should be taken over by the miners. We know about harnesses and abseiling. We could work together with the Forgemasters; it’s a work that needs doing to keep the mountain running smoothly, and with some of us and some of the forge experts we can easily accomplish it,” the normally jovial miner declared seriously.  
“You should still include the umzâr for now,” Balin suggested, “They have done it for a long time, they’ll be able to convey some insight. Talk to Miss Oifa, she might have an idea or two about how to go about it.”  
Dwalin scowled irritated at his brother. “No way she’s going up those flutes again.” He stilled when they all looked at him. “What?” He glared at them. “She’s a wisp of a thing. She could easily slip through the harness.”  
There were a few grins but Dwalin chose to ignore them.  
“She’ll gain some weight soon enough, they all will,” Balin declared, idly folding his hands over his white beard with a soft smile, “Bombur will make sure of it. But I agree, don’t send Dwalin’s little dam in the flutes again.”  
Dwalin narrowed his eyes at his brother and shot a fiercely irritated look around the table.  
Bofur chuckled and spread his hands in surrender. “Don’t worry, Dwalin, I’ll just _talk_ to her.”  
“Aye,” Bombur added, “And don’t worry about me feeding them right. After what I’ve seen in that hole they call kitchen ...” The rotund cook shook his head and suppressed a shudder. “We’ve had better fair during the quest.” He looked at Dwalin and grinned. “She’ll be no wispy thing much longer once I’ve taken care of her meals.”  
“She’ll be nice and curvy, as a dam should be,” Dori nodded in agreement, “And I can’t wait to get her into proper clothes. She’s got something about her, she’ll be a treat to the eye, I have no doubt. I’m sure you’ll be pleased, Dwalin.”  
They all chuckled at that declaration and Dwalin scowled once more at the teasing. But he couldn’t deny that he wanted to see Miss Oifa nice and curvy and a bit dressed up. Maybe even with her hair a bit more lose and hanging over her shoulders. He couldn’t say why he felt that way, he was not the sort of dwarf to get all mushy about such things, but somehow the little dam had managed to pull on his heartstrings like no other before. Dwalin stroked his beard, lost in thought for a moment, only to be brought back to reality by more chuckles. He looked up.  
Thorin hurried to school his face into a neutral expression when his Guard Captain’s glare found him grinning, before the King spoke again. “I have no doubt that all the umzâr will look much better soon.” He turned to his advisor. “Balin, I want you to have someone look into the Gatemaster’s books. I’m having a hard time believing he was unaware how the umzâr were treated under Nathi. He might well have gotten himself some favours as well by not asking questions. I also want to know if all that have been assigned to Nathi over the last few years are still with the umzâr. So, please do a crosscheck to see if we have names missing.”  
Balin gave his assent with a nod and the discussion went to the work that was meant to be done in the umzâr’s quarters over the next days and weeks. The architects had already surveyed the halls and several teams of stone masons and dwarrow from the waterworks were ready to get started transforming the dark, damp, miserable quarters into something that could be lived in.  
Dwalin had looked into each and every gloomy room himself after the interviews were done. Mattresses were filled with rotting straw and gravel and there were barely any pillows or blankets. Some rooms were fairly large, with several umzâr sharing the space, others, like Oifa’s, were tiny, barely bigger than a storeroom. They were no personal possessions, no spare clothes, no looking glasses, no luxuries of any kind. And no door had a lock. The very thought of what it could mean for a little dam like Oifa to be sleeping alone in a room that could easily be accessed by anyone at night made Dwalin’s skin crawl.  
The washrooms were an insult to the name and the plumbing made the most interesting noises but that was about all it could do. Buckets were instead positioned on the floor in the lavatories. Dwalin - not the squeamish kind of dwarf in the first place and as soldier well used to trench latrines - had left the room with a repulsed scowl that had a young umzâr jump in fright when he passed him on his way to the umzâr’s common hall. The scowl didn’t leave his face in the badly lit place, as musty smelling as the rest of the whole azlâdu and the fireplace to one side of the large room looked as if it hadn’t been used since before Smaug. Tables and benches were basic but at least reasonably sturdy and clean. The small kitchen Bombur mentioned was situated behind the hall. Dwalin by no means considered himself a spoiled dwarf and he had lived with next to nothing for a long while, but what was laid out in the larder was disgusting and he nearly gagged when he had a taste of the ‘ale’ that was kept in a barrel. _Wargpiss_ he would call it, and that would have been a compliment. Dwalin had turned away from the kitchen in disgust.  
No, it would not do to delay any work in the umzâr’s floor even for a single day.

Dwalin couldn’t wait to see Oifa’s face once she realized she’ll have _hot_ water and access to a _proper bath_ every day of the week soon.  
He wondered if she remembered her prayer from the night her mind had been so befuddled with exhaustion that she misjudged the mountain’s levels and ended up in the guard’s wing. Dwalin also couldn’t help but muse what her reaction would have been once she woke and realized she was not, in fact, in her own broom cupboard-like room and whether she figured out that she had been not just in any guard’s bed but in his. He had no doubt that she absolutely panicked - a thought that filled him with sorrow; it would not do for her to be afraid, least of all of him. Dwalin had no illusions that he came across as a gruff, hard dwarf; he had nearly perfected his image of the tough, uncompromising warrior in over a century after all. His soldiers called him hard but fair, but only his family and friends knew that he had quite the soft core hidden under his seemingly unyielding exterior.

When he went to bed late that night his last thought before falling asleep was one of determination: one day he wanted to be able include Miss Oifa in that select group of dwarrow, wanted her to look at him and give him a good and honest holding-nothing-back kind of smile.

= - = - =

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sodalite blue granite is a real thing and is used for kitchens and bathrooms. There’s a pic of a shower base on this stories Pinterest page if such things interest you 
> 
> Khuzdul thanks to the Dwarrow Scholar - and my own wranglings  
> umzâr: workers  
> umzâr’deshnâr: supreme workers  
> umzâr’idshân: lesser workers  
> Khazâd: Dwarrow  
> azlâdu: dominion  
> Izrikruk: Master  
> The Office of the Marshal of the Court of the Queen of England is an actual thing and dedicated to the organizing of guests and dignitaries. For my story I have given the Master (Izrikruk) of said office (azlâdu) also the responsibility to oversee the domestic servants.  
> Seneschal: A term that was used in medieval times for the Majordomo of a great house: he would have been in charge for domestic affairs and the administration of servants.


	7. Spirits Rise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renovations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading and supporting with your kudos/comments xx  
> I like visuals and do a lot of research on Pinterest, where this story now has its own board: https://www.pinterest.com.au/cuptivate

= - = - =

 

Over the course of mere days the whole floor of the umzâr changed drastically.

An army of dwarrow engineers, architects and waterworks experts broke through walls to make rooms bigger, built walls to make rooms smaller, fixed the plumbing, installed a pulley system to be able to deliver the main meals directly from the kitchens to the umzâr’s hall, installed sconces for torches and hung several of the famous golden lights in the corridors.

All quarters were scrubbed until they gleamed and new furniture and new mattresses were brought in. Space for clothing and personal belongings was created and made available in form of closets and chest of drawers and bedside tables. Tables, chairs, rugs, looking glasses, new bed sheets, pillows and blankets, arrays of soaps, combs and brushes as well as towels were an added luxury, and somehow the engineers had managed to connect the umzâr’s azlâdu with the mountain wide net of in-stone-heating: meaning the excess heat from the forges was channeled through pipes and was warming the very stone floors and walls, making the damp chill in the very air vanish in next to no time.

It was _amazing_.

Lord Dwalin came into the umzâr’s hall on the first morning after breakfast and introduced the new guards, the lot of them much friendlier looking than Nathi’s lackeys, and you were pleased to see that Jarspur was put in charge as their commanding officer. Even though you didn’t really know the old soldier, he had shown a gentle kindness which you weren’t really used to seeing in guards, but very much appreciated it.

Lord Dwalin also caught your eye walking through the umzâr’s azlâdu several times every day, in this prowling sort of way he had about him. You couldn’t help but feel quite intimidated by the huge, gruff looking warrior. There was no doubt he had seen all sorts of things, and while your life hadn’t been glorious, you had grown up rather sheltered. Unlike the Ereborian exiles you had never had to make a life outside of a mountain and weren’t at all versed in the harsh conditions under open sky, let alone in battle and the art of war as Dwalin undoubtedly was. Even your brother, Olwe, who had only been with the guards in the Iron Hills for a few decades before he was killed by orcs on a routine patrol had seen little more violence than you did, even though he had at least knowledge of fighting, thanks to endless training and drills and education in combat and tactics and such. In the end none of those had done him any good though, and the thought of dwarrow pledging their dedication to that kind of lifestyle as a life choice was both thrilling and mortifying to you.

When the renovations began and it became clear that groups of four would be sharing the newly created generously spaced rooms - dwarrow on one side of the forked corridor, dams on the other - you had become quietly excited and nervous about who you would be sharing with, but then Lady Fárni had informed you that _you_ \- because of your new responsibilities - would be receiving a room _of your own_.

It was a shock, and you tried to talk your way out of that kind of special treatment - to no avail.

So when you entered your new room for the first time - the very first one at the mouth of the dams’ corridor and just around the corner from the office that formerly belonged to Nathi - you had to stop at the door and hold on to the doorframe for a moment or two because it all became just a little too overwhelming. Your room wasn’t huge, but it was spacious, and fit not only a decent size bed but the bed also was placed snugly into an alcove on the far side of the room. It was generously furnished with plush cushions in jewel tones, blankets and furs and a neat set of thick curtains in a jade hue with a tailored pleat were tied off to the sides of the alcove, ready to create both a secret little nook and a little privacy.

A table to sit four and a sturdy bookshelf sat on a gorgeous citrine coloured rug and several tapestries adorned the walls, depicting both the Iron Hills and the Lonely Mountain. But what made your already wobbly knees really go weak was the door next to bed: it led into a walk-in wardrobe and into a small wet room, complete with all the necessarily amenities and a generously sized bathtub.

With a choked sigh and a shudder you sank down on the carved stone edge of the tub and clutched your hands together before your chest, feeling quite overwhelmed.

Tears gathered in your eyes and dripped down your face unchecked.

Your own _room_. Your own _bath_. You could wash every day, with _hot_ water.

They were too generous, that was your first thought. Why should _you_ receive preferential treatment and not another umzâr? Was it because you were Ovdari’s granddaughter that they assumed you had the same skills that he had?

Well, you were sure that you didn’t, but you knew – in theory – most of the things he had done in his position as Seneschal under King Thror: when your Adad had fled Erebor after Smaug he barely survived but he did manage to take with him his own diaries, where he had written in detail many things Ovdari taught him in order to, one day, take over his position. He also managed to bring with him Ovdari’s records: detailed descriptions of the daily Runnings of Erebor.

You knew every word in them by heart and your father had done his best to teach you all that he knew, even confined to the sickbed as he was most of the time thanks to his terrible burns.

Suddenly feeling a little pride rear its head – not a feeling you were overmuch used to - you sat up straight and wiped away the tears.

 _You would do them proud_. You knew how to work hard and you would work even harder and use everything you had learned to help Lady Fárni and you would continue to learn as much as you could and _not let anybody down_.

Yes, you could do it.

Filled with determination you got to your feed and rushed out the door and back to the office without another look around your room.

 

New sets of clothes arrived from Lord Dori’s shop daily and you helped Lady Fárni handing them out to the umzâr. When it became clear on the second day that the task was becoming increasingly difficult as there was simply not enough room in the office to have so many boots, dresses, tunics, aprons and whatnot else on hand you said out loud without thought that it would be wise to convert an extra room into one dedicated to store and keep any replacement clothing as well as a first set for any new dwarrow arriving in the azlâdu.

“Very good idea,” Fárni praised immediately, making you blush and avert your eyes. “Why don’t you see to it right away?”

With a startle you looked at her in shock.

The dam chuckled. “Why, Miss Oifa, it _is_ a good idea and who best to pick a suitable room than you, knowing your way around down here as you do?”

Blushing again you twisted your hands nervously, thinking hard. “Maybe ... maybe near the laundry? I believe there is an unused storage place next to the mangle room?” you suggested shyly.

Fárni beamed at you and nodded. “Good thinking. Why don’t you go down there right now and look at it? The work crews are still here. Get them to do shelves and hanging space or whatever else it is that needs done.”

You hesitated. “They ... they won’t listen to the likes of me ...” you trailed off uncertainly, wringing your hands.

“Nonsense they won’t,” Fárni firmly objected, “It is what they are here for, after all. You just tell them precisely what you want and listen to their advice if they have any. Don’t forget they are down here because the King ordered it.” She looked at your worried face and her expression softened. “I’ll ask Jarspur to accompany you, if that makes you feel better.”

Sure enough soon after you found yourself in the very room you had suggested - Jarspur was waiting at the door - explaining to a very eager young dwarf from the architect’s guild about the room’s purpose and how you would the shelves and hanging space like to be. He nodded along with all that you said, took a few measurements and then sketched away on a pad of tightly clamped together parchment sheets, including a small table and even a small curtained off corner to try on clothing on his own account. As soon as you were agreed the dwarf promised to have it done by the next morning and bowed to you on his way out.

You stood shell-shocked for a moment, before Jarspur’s subtle cough brought you back to the presence.

Fárni gave you a little pat on the shoulder for a job well done and handed you the lists with all the umzâr’s names, telling you the whole affair was all yours from now on.

She also handed you an armful of clothing. Bewildered you looked down, not only at new work clothes but also several dresses. You recognized silk and velvet, woven cotton and brocade.

Puzzled you looked up at Fárni.

“Surely you wouldn’t want to have to sit in on council meetings or attend feasts upstairs in your work tunic?” the dam asked with an amused smile, eyebrow pointedly raised. No, you would not, but you also hadn’t anticipated that you were _required_ to be sitting in on council meetings or attend feasts upstairs when Princess Dis told you to help Fárni _sort out Nathi’s mess_.

Before you could say something Fárni had already turned her back, busying herself with some parchments on the desk, sending the clear signal that there was nothing for you to object to, thank you very much.

So you clutched to your pile of clothes and carried them back into your room.

 

 

By the end of the week Lord Dori had managed to supply every umzâr with new work clothes, including unders and boots, to the excitement of all. He also sent plenty extras, and your newly set up clothing room was being put to excellent use already.

 “I can’t believe it,” Glōa whispered excitedly while she folded her new outfits into a pile, ready to carry them into her room, “How is it that we’re suddenly so lucky?” she asked and bit her lip straight away, shooting a worried look to the guard at the door. You smiled and put a soothing hand on her arm. Jarspur had informed you that he wished to send a guard with you wherever you went, therefore one of the four that were at all times stationed outside the office and in the corridor would follow you whenever you went anywhere. The old soldier also asked you – with an imploringly stern look – that you were to tell him if any of them made you feel uncomfortable at any point in time. You could honestly say that, while it was weird and a bit unnerving to have someone follow you around wherever you went, none of the guards gave you even the slightest sense of discomfort, not like before. You told Jarspur, avoiding his eyes as you suddenly felt you were being too bold voicing critic on some of the previous guards that, even though they were doing Nathi’s bidding, they still were guards and as such colleagues of Jarspur after all. But he waved you off. “It is good to hear, Miss Oifa,” he said, “A lot has gone wrong down here, and many of us guards take it rather personal that not all in Erebor have been treated right, by some of our own no less. Be sure to work with me in an effort to not have it happen ever again.”

You nodded resolutely.

 

The rosters continued to be a lot of work, as Lady Fárni tried to maintain a seamless workflow with shorter shifts but also give the umzâr a chance to have time off for a few hours every week. It also became a continued clash of wills of sorts, one that left you frustrated, a little fearful and determined in equal measure, as Fárni continuously took you off the work roster with the argument that you were busy enough in the office and simply did not have the time to do nightshifts, only for you to have to insist to be included in the shifts of each duty the umzâr were to perform. You maintained that you would be losing touch with the scope and responsibilities of the work if you didn’t continue to be a part of it.

Lady Fárni rolled her eyes at you every time but she gave in.

 

One duty however was taken off the umzâr, very much to your surprise but also to your delight: from now on the chimney flutes would be the responsibility of the Miners and Forgemasters, equally.  
“It’s not done safely, lassie, and I don’t like it,” Lord Bofur had said unhappily, after you had taken him, two of his fellow miners and two very stout forgemasters with barrel chests and massive arms to one of the main chimney flutes and showed them how the cleaning was done by the umzâr. Lord Bofur, a Lord Companion and the Master of the Mining Guild took one look at you when you wrapped your face and head in a piece of cloth, leaving only the eyes free, tied the large brush and scrape on a rope from your waist and strapped yourself into the harness rope that hung loosely down from high up in the flute, ready to pull yourself up with the second loosely hanging rope, the pull rope, and shook his head. “Your harness is too loose, Miss Oifa, and you have no chest strap,” he said and halted your efforts to hoist yourself up the slippery flute. “Besides,” added one of the forgemasters, “The flute is too hot, even I wouldn’t go in there, and I’m well used to the heat of a furnace.” All five dwarrow shook their heads and looked at you sternly. “The umzâr will no longer be doing this task,” Lord Bofur had declared, after a brief consultation with the others, “We will share this chore amongst us,” he said.

 

About a week later you sat in the umzâr’s hall and stirred a generous dollop of butter into your breakfast porridge and leisurely watched it melt. Apart from having access to good food several times a day it was also bliss not to have to rush eating it. You had just come back from an early morning ash run with one of the former umzâr’deshnâr. For the first time you had been to parts of the upper floors, through the various council rooms and several guild halls. It had not been easy to focus on work while you found yourself distracted staring in wonder at gold-inlaid stone carvings and rich tapestries.

Now you had time for breakfast before cleaning yourself up and putting on one of the lovely new dresses and begin your workday at the office.

After a quick hot bath that left you moaning in delight you put on a soft, white muslin chemise with a lovely lace trim at the modest low neckline with full sleeves and ruffled wrists and a cotton skirt in the colour of antique gold. Tying the natural cording of the bodice in a woven block design in the same antique gold hue, as well as the colours of amethyst and jade you couldn’t help but smile at yourself in the looking glass. A cotton crinkle gauze in bright carnelian finished the skirt. Your smoothed your hair and quickly braided your family braid, fastening it with the beads left to you by your parents and your brother, and smoothed it behind your ear. Then you fashioned the bulk of your pale gold hair into a five-strand pleat and wound it around the top of your head, leaving the rest cascading down your back.

Running your hands over the soft fabric of the skirt once more you couldn’t resist doing a little twirl, enjoying the feel of it against your legs. Then you left your room to make the short walk to Nathi’s office. The room that used to be Nathi’s office that is.

Because Nathi was still in a cell in the dungeon, as Lady Fárni had informed you when you had dared to ask.

“The investigation is still ongoing,” the dam said, indicating at Aggi, who sat as ever unmoving over an account book, trying to make sense of the numbers of Nathi’s bookkeeping.

 

Nodding to Jarspur at his position outside of the office you entered the room and took a deep, anxious breath.

It was empty, Aggi not having arrived yet to begin his day and Lady Fárni would not come in today. And tomorrow. The dam had left you with her set of keys for a couple of days and the responsibility of running things on your own, as she was seeing to settling newly arrived dwarrow from Ered Luin, some of them relations of her. The very thought of being in charge had you in near panic. Nervously you had argued that you were not equipped with the skills to continue the work on your own but Fárni just waved you off with a chuckle, gave you a brief hug, told you to _get Lord Dwalin_ of all people if you were stuck and was out the door before you could blink.

It was all a bit ... disconcerting.

You took another deep breath and shook yourself to get rid of the anxiety. Stepping to the desk you focused on going over the list of things that needed doing and soon you were submerged into work.

= - = - =

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khuzdul thanks to the Dwarrow Scholar - and my own wranglings  
> umzâr: workers  
> umzâr’deshnâr: supreme workers  
> umzâr’idshân: lesser workers  
> Khazâd: Dwarrow  
> azlâdu: dominion  
> Izrikruk: Master  
> The Office of the Marshal of the Court of the Queen of England is an actual thing and dedicated to the organizing of guests and dignitaries. For my story I have given the Master (Izrikruk) of said office (azlâdu) also the responsibility to oversee the domestic servants.  
> Seneschal: A term that was used in medieval times for the Majordomo of a great house: he would have been in charge for domestic affairs and the administration of servants.


	8. Spirits Dampen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Discoveries and memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay: an involuntary stint in hospital delayed a great many things ...  
> As always, if you like visuals, check out Cuptivate on Pinterest. This story has its own board.

= - = - =

 

 

“Miss Oifa,” came a deep voice from the open door just as you were going over the inventory of the royal linen closet. You looked up at Lord Dwalin, who smiled while he greeted you, his sharp eyes taking in your new dress and open hair.

“Lord Dwalin,” you greeted him hurriedly and curtsied with a blush.

The tall dwarf entered the room, looking his usual intimidating self, dressed in the dark green armour of the Ereborian elite soldier and bristling with weapons. His intense gaze sent a tingle down your spine and you ducked your head, pretending to be busy shuffling paperwork around.

He stopped in front of the desk and stood silently. Fighting with yourself you dug deep and after a few moments managed to look up at him again.

“What can I do for you, Mylord?” you breathed, slightly shaky and barely audible.

Dwalin calmly held your gaze and smiled once more before becoming serious. “It is not a pleasant one, I’m afraid,” he said softly,” The reason why I’m here,” he continued and there was true regret in his voice. He sighed. "Some of Nathi’s former guards ... pointed me towards an abandoned mining shaft. It is a rather deep mining shaft, I'm afraid, and it took us some time to establish its safety – with Bofur’s help – and to send someone down there to have a look."

“They just _told_ you about a mine shaft?” you asked and sounded a little more doubtful than you had meant to.

The corners of Dwalin mouth curled up a little before he regarded you silently for a moment. "They were ... persuaded ... to come forward with anything that may have discredited them in their duties and divulge the details about it to me," he clarified eventually, gravely.

You nodded. You had no doubt that the guards would have been terrified when Dwalin so much as looked at them sternly, let alone raised his voice. And if the warrior had given some of them a good shakedown if would be quite fine with you, too.

"We have been able to recover a very large amount of items from that mine shaft. Mostly clothing. Unfortunately, the majority of it looks as if it is unsalvageable; ruined for good from lying in muck for so long. There are also a lot of other items; weapons, some jewelry, trinkets. It appears these are the personal items that Nathi took from dwarrow when they began working in his azlâdu. We need to decide what to do with it all."

You nodded, your heart getting heavy with sadness, thinking of the few precious things you were missing as well. "I think," you began quietly, "I think Nathi has created so much hurt and insecurity that everyone should have to be able to see for themselves whether their things are ruined for good or not. Otherwise it might be hard for some to get closure.”

Nodding in understanding, Dwalin watched you carefully. “We'll need lists,” he said equally quietly.

“Yes,” you whispered. "I'll see it done."

And so you began the arduous task of summoning each and every umzâr into the office and have them describe the items Nathi had taken from them for ‘safe-keeping’. There wasn’t much to list, for most of them; it was altogether a sad undertaking. You wrote your two sets of clothing, your travel cloak, your brother’s knife, your Amad’s hand embroidered sleeping gown and the two books wrapped in wax dipped leather at the very end of the list before you had it delivered to Dwalin.

When he picked you up the day after Lady Fárni returned and escorted you to a hall in the northern part of the mountain he held your gaze and smiled at you, but his eyes remained serious. You couldn’t help but let out a choked sob when you entered and saw - and smelled - the piles of wet, filthy clothing and bundles of ... _things_ , that used to be precious personal belongings.

Lord Ori was there, another of the Lord Companions, with several duplicates of your list, and a number of helpers: Gimli, Lady Fárni’s son, Lord Bofur, a couple of young dams that worked in the kitchens, and a few new guard recruits.

Almost automatically you straightened your work apron and tightened the coif over your head that held the tight braid in place, gave Dwalin a grim nod, and walked over to them to begin the miserable task of sorting the items before you according to the lists.

Weapons were easiest to sort, obviously, but the clothing was a right mess - it was a blessing they had selected this hall, as it had wide windows that had been opened, helping to cope with the terrible stench. Windows in the mountain were a rare thing and you couldn’t help but wonder what function this hall used to have, once upon a time, to warrant the use of such an extravagance.

You had found your clothes fairly early on without too much searching, surprisingly so, but they were good for nothing anymore; you took a moment when you held your Amad’s nightgown and sat down on the floor on the side of the hall, tracing your hands over the colourful stitching from painstakingly collected threads of silk yarn she had put in with so much love and care, shapes of jewels in a beautiful array around the neckline and the sleeves, now almost unrecognizable from the grimy filth of the sump of the abandoned mine shaft.

When you had your emotions back under control you got up and discarded all of it on the ‘to burn’ pile - the first items on that pile, as it was not your place to decide for other umzâr what they wanted to do with their own things and any of your clothes were far gone to be used even as rags.

You kept working in a daze for what felt like ages, ticking off things from your list as you managed to recognize them and put them on their respective piles, Lord Ori periodically crosschecking the lists, until a strong hand on your elbow steered you into the next room where some basins were prepared to wash your hands and tables were laid with food and drink.

“It’s quite enough for today, Miss Oifa,” a deep voice said as you were gently maneuvered from the washing station to the tables and pushed down to sit on a bench.

“I’m fine, I can work, Mylord,” you mumbled automatically, not looking up, falling back into Nathi’s teachings.

“Here, lass,” a second voice said, and you found yourself with a large mug of tea in your hands.

You sat numbly for a while, letting conversation flow over you without hearing what was being said, before you took a shuddering breath and a sip from the tea. It was strong and sweet, just as you liked it, and it helped to slowly bring your senses back.

Lord Bofur sat next to you, wearing his unusual hat on the table as always. He spoke to Dwalin, who was across the table from you, and Gimli, who sat next to the warrior.

When you put the empty mug back on the table, the miner smiled at you. “Bit better now, lass?”

You gave a small nod. “Yes, thank you, Lord Bofur,” you said with a scratchy voice.

“The tea was just right then?” he asked with a grin. “And none of that Lordy talking with me, lass, if you please.”

“Yes, Mylord,” you said obediently and winced apologetically as soon as the words were out, “The tea was very nice, thank you … Bofur. Just as I like it.”

Bofur laughed and winked. “Looks like you’ve got that in common with our Guard Captain then,” he said, bumping his shoulder against yours lightly, “As he’s made your tea.”

You blushed and looked up at Dwalin, who seemed to scowl at the miner momentarily but when he looked at you his eyes were kind. “It’s been a hard day, Miss Oifa, and you haven’t taken a break at all.” His deep voice was soft but there was no denying the underlying reproach.

“Aye, you’ve got to take better care of yourself, lass,” Bofur agreed, “This task is hard enough mentally, no need to make it harder still by forgetting to take a little break every now and then.”

Ducking your head you nodded.

“Miss Oifa?” Lord Ori exclaimed breathlessly at that moment, rushing to the table, carrying a pack wrapped in leather.

Your eyes almost popped out of your sockets. “Is that ...?” You rose to your feet and took the pack out of the Head Scribe’s hands before falling back into your seat heavily.

Ori was a few decades younger than you and you couldn’t help but greatly admire that he had been a member of the quest that reclaimed Erebor. Now his ears were visibly red with excitement under his knitted shawl and he almost tripped over himself as he hurried to sit down next to Dwalin, who held out a steadying hand for the young dwarf in a gesture that showed he had done the very same thing countless times before.

Looking at the leather pack in your hands you swallowed hard.

Ori was right.

_It was._

With trembling hands you carefully unwrapped the pack and folded back the several layers of leather and cloth to reveal two books.

They were a bit damp but otherwise undamaged.

Tears shot into your eyes.

“M-my Adad’s a-and Ovdari’s diaries,” you stammered, touching them reverently.

Ori’s eyes were wide as saucers. “Seneschal Ovdari’s diary?” he breathed in awe.

You smiled wistfully and nodded. “Yes, I have never met him, but my Adad always said he ran things rather neat and tightly. And it’s not a proper diary, it’s more of a reference book really, telling about the daily Runnings of Erebor under King Thror’s rule. It is quite a fascinating read. I know it by heart, and have learned a lot from it.” You looked down at the book, carefully opening it to reveal the tight script of your grandfather.

With hesitating fingers you touched some damp spots on the pages.

“I ... I can fix this, Miss Oifa, if you let me,” Ori told you, taking in your dismayed expression.

“You could?” you asked shyly, your eyes wide and your voice hopeful.

He nodded confidently. “I know all about parchment, it is easily done.”

Giving him a small smile you looked back down at the books, the only thing you had left of your family, by the looks of it, apart from memories. “If you’re sure,” you said.

“It’s a piece of history,” Dwalin put in, “It should be restored and be given a place of pride in Erebor’s library. Ovdari was a formidable dwarf, I remember him well.”

You looked at the warrior. “You ... you knew him?” Your eyes filled with tears once more. “How ... how was he?”

Dwalin smiled at you. “Strict he was, with the most forbidable white hair and beard. He wore his hair long and back in a tail, his mustache was very well groomed. He had bushy eyebrows and his beard was long, braided into one thick pleat, held together with a wide clasp,” he said with his deep voice, but it was full of warmth, “I was in trouble with him more than once, as was Thorin.” The warrior chuckled when you looked at him in shock. Thorin … the King had been in trouble with Ovdari?

“Oh, aye,” Dwalin said with a nod and a grin, interpreting your expression correctly, “Ovdari didn’t care that he was the Crown Prince, he gave us a good scolding - rather regularly, I’m afraid. Naturally,” the warrior stroked his beard and narrowed his eyes a little, clearly pretending to be stern, “It was always Thorin who had the ideas, I just tagged along, following his orders, even then.”

Bofur laughed out loud at that, as did Gimli. “Naturally,” the jovial miner agreed and laughed again. “But are you saying young Thorin was as bad as Fili and Kili with his mischief?”

Your eyes widened at the casual mention of the King and his heirs. Of course, the members of the Company would all be very familiar with each other since the quest, and probably already before that, but still …

Dwalin waved a hand dismissively. “Worse,” he stated easily, “The lads are as innocent as newborn rams compared to their uncle back in the day.”

Laughing again, Bofur stated “Oh, I’ve got to hear details now, my friend. Tell us, what did you two get up to?”

“And how did you get on Ovdari’s bad side?” Gimli added with a grin.

Your heart clenched a little. You would love to hear the stories, but knew that Dwalin would hardly tell them in front of _you_. You were only an umzâr, after all, with no standing in the mountain. It mattered not that your grandfather was a part of the story. Smoothing over your skirt you were about to make an excuse, get up and leave so they could have Dwalin’s story, when the warrior spoke again. “Very well, but don’t blame me if Miss Oifa here is mortified once she hears how we have made the umzâr’s lives rather difficult back then with our antics,” he said softly, holding your gaze when you looked up in surprise.

“I doubt anything you did would have had them struggle as much as they have these past years under Nathi,” Bofur easily commented.

Dwalin hummed and nodded, still holding your gaze. “That is true, regrettably so.”

You ducked your head shyly. “We’re all better now, Mylord.”

“And so it shall remain,” Dwalin said very seriously, “Unless of course any present will follow Thorin’s bad examples from the days of old.” He looked sternly at young Gimli, who spluttered indignantly. “I would never …” he hurried to say but trailed off when Dwalin clapped him on the shoulder with a bark of laughter.

“I was just teasing.” He leaned forward a little, his eyes darting across the room and dropping his voice a little as to not be overheard by others. Then he began telling about the mischiefs in the Erebor of old.

 

= - = - =

 

Dwalin did his best to put the little dam at ease. She’d not had the best of days, as was to be expected.

How her face had fallen when Dwalin had told her that the umzâr’s personal things had been found and that – by large – they were unsalvageable! He had truly hated having to tell her and when he entered the office and saw her in that pretty dress in colours that suited her so very well, with her hair clean and neatly braided and wound around the crown of her head, the loose ends spilling down her back, he momentarily considered leaving and to come back later.

But delaying the inevitable would make a miserable task no less unpleasant, so he didn’t and told her the truth right away.

When the list with the umzâr’s missing items was delivered to him the first thing he did was check whether she had added her own: At the very end of the exceptionally neat written compilation he found the meagre possessions she was hoping to retrieve from the salvaged items: a knife, some books and clothes, she specifically listed a nightgown.

It made him terribly sad.

And he became sadder still when he observed her sitting alone on the floor at the side of the former Hall of Light - the Dyer’s guild hall from before Smaug, where they compared the colours of their fabrics and yarns under natural light, ready for the markets of Men - clutching a filthy peace of something with an utterly wretched and forlorn expression on her face.

When she heaved herself up quite a while later and discarded the item he waited until she was absorbed in her work once more and retrieved what turned out to be the missing nightgown. It was ruined for sure, but the stitching was still visible, and he asked Ori to secretly copy some of the design on a piece of parchment. The young scribe beamed with excitement to be asked such a thing and it took him mere moments to do so. Once he was done Dwalin discreetly put the ruined fabric back to where he had taken it from, without Oifa noticing.

Dwalin then had to leave to see to his own duties, but upon his return hours later Bofur told him that she had worked all day as if in a trance, disregarding any attempts from them to have her take a break.

Indeed, it was as Fárni had told them several times: nobody could possibly critique Miss Oifa’s application to a chore. Any chore.

But Dwalin knew she had taken the early shift mending clothes and he didn’t like that she forwent even the shortest break, even though Bofur said he had shoved a cup of water into her hands at some point and asked her to sit for a moment and eat a bite; to no avail as she didn’t even react, so absorbed was she in her duties.

Which is why Dwalin took matters in his own hand when he saw the dark shadows under her eyes and the pinched expression on her face and steered her resolutely into the other room, making sure she washed up before he made her a mug of tea. Fárni had mentioned – too many times to ignore it in fact – that Oifa liked her tea strong and sweet, a taste Dwalin shared, to the continued teasing of many.

Dwalin had asked Ori, Bofur and young Gimli to keep an eye out especially for Oifa’s things from the list, and when Ori stumbled to the table carrying the large pack wrapped in wax dipped leather Dwalin couldn’t help but hold his breath and cross his fingers in a silent prayer. Oifa’s face said it all and apart from her personal relief it was indeed a great thing to have Ovdari’s personal records at hand; they were a part of Erebor’s history but they also could give valuable insight in how the current Runnings of the mountain could be improved. Dwalin knew Thorin would be pleased, as the King, too, remembered the old Seneschal with much fondness. 

Miss Oifa very much looked like she was going to run when Dwalin mentioned Thorin as his playing buddy from the carefree years of their youth.

While Dwalin would never talk in such a private way about his King in front of strangers, neither Bofur, Ori or Gimli were that, and Dwalin very much intended to include Miss Oifa to that group of family and friends at some stage, so he figured he might as well begin treating her thusly now.

Bofur, the old grinner, shot Dwalin a knowing look across the table when he teased young Gimli in an effort to ease the tension and to keep the dam from bolting, which she very much looked like she was about to do.

Having sparked the curiosity of those at his table enough, Dwalin then leaned forward a little, letting his eyes dart across the room and dropped his voice a little as to not be overheard by others. “There was the time ...” And he told them about the days when he and Thorin had their first instructions in Mining work. After boring weeks of safety rules and getting to know equipment and practicing their stone sense they were given lessons in the mixing of miner’s concrete, which involved bringing up dust from certain mining tunnels and delivering it to the builders who worked on a project near the Guild Halls at the time. The project was a long way away from the mines. Lots of stairs. They were meant to use a pulley system that was already in place to hoist the sacks of dust up to where they were needed. But a lot of other materials had to be hoisted up as well, so there was a line. Thorin and he didn’t want to wait, because after that task they had the afternoon off. Instead they chose to tie the sacks to ropes and pull them up the stairs, thinking that young and strong as they were, it would be no hardship for them. But the sacks didn’t like being bounced up the stairs and many split open, the fine dust spilling _everywhere_. A foreign delegation was to arrive that afternoon, the King’s special guests, the mountain was to look spotless, and not covered in white. Ovdari was called and to this day Dwalin remembered the look of stern disapproval he gave them, almost worse than the look from the King himself. Most of the umzâr were called away from their other duties to clean up the mess, but Ovdari insisted Thorin and he helped. The King readily agreed. It was a nightmare. The fine white dust stuck to skin and hair and it took ages to sweep everything away. There was no free afternoon for Thorin and Dwalin that day, nor the next, and it took days for their hair and barely existing beards to be clean again.

Then Dwalin told his little audience about the time when Thorin and he were given the task to clean King Thror’s silver fountain, the very fountain the King himself had crafted and that gave the words to the famous poem ‘King of Carven Stone’. Of course they were meant to use a special paste, rags and elbow grease, but it seemed an insurmountable and utterly boring chore - the fountain was large after all - and neither of them was willing to spend hours polishing when their time could be better spent on the training grounds. The special solution looked and smelled a lot like the coarse ash soap that was used by the soldiers in the barracks, so they quickly got some and began generously rubbing the soap into the silver of the top layers of the fountain. Of course their plan didn’t work at all and soon enough grey suds overflowed the famous silver fountain and turned the marble stone floor of the whole hall into a slippery nightmare.

And there was the day when Thorin, Frerin and Dwalin had the dare of who would be able to catch the most pigeons in Dale and let them lose from one of the upper balconies inside the mountain. Frerin won, but only because Thorin and Dwalin suddenly looked up and saw the panicked birds fluttering about and the droppings and feathers they left in their wake. The King wasn’t pleased, neither was Thrain, nor Fundin, Dwalin’s father. But least of all Ovdari. They had to work alongside the umzâr for almost six months after that incident, forgoing any free time they had ‘to better serve the mountain’, as the King had decreed upon his Seneschal’s request.

Bofur laughed himself silly with Dwalin’s stories of old, as was to be expected. Gimli and Oin laughed, too, but they were also squirming in their seats, both young enough to know from fairly recent experiences what a good scolding felt like.

Miss Oifa’s expression however was adorable. The little dam didn’t take her eyes of him and was clearly torn between exasperation, shock and humour, her eyes wide and a hand trying to cover her little laughs at his stories as well as her embarrassment about laughing.

“Goes without saying that Ovdari was right in all he did,” Dwalin said, directed at the dam, smiling softly, “He was very protective of his umzâr, and we caused plenty havoc, I am ashamed to say.”

Oifa ducked her head and averted her eyes when she suddenly became aware that she had hung at every word from his lips without pause. Wrapping her hands around the empty mug she blushed. “Nothing you did caused serious harm,” she said quietly with a little shrug. Then a small proud smile ghosted over her face, and she glanced up at him quickly. “I am glad to hear that Ovdari was a good dwarf, he seemed well respected and didn’t take his position lightly.”

Dwalin hummed. “Just like his granddaughter then,” he stated firmly.

Oifa blushed again and was about to protest when Bofur chimed in. “Aye,” he said and bumped his shoulder into hers gently, “Looks like the apple didn’t fall far off the tree there.”

The dam’s cheeks turned nearly ruby red by then and she stammered through a few attempts of telling them that she couldn’t possibly – ever – be compared to Ovdari, earning her good-natured chuckles, which made her blush ever more.

 

= - = - =

 

 

It took another day to sort all the umzâr’s belongings that had been found.

However, a large number of items were missing for good, mainly weapons and jewelry, but also some furs and pieces of armour - all of it the obviously more valuable items of the lot.

“Not surprising,” Bofur mumbled when he stood next to Dwalin, both of them watching Miss Oifa and Ori going over their lists for the last time, “Probably sold for some easy coin. Scummy thing to do.”

The knife of Oifa’s brother was one of the missing items.

While it made her obviously sad, it didn’t affect her as much as the ruined nightgown. It made sense to Dwalin. Sure, the knife had belonged to her brother, but the little dam had no knowledge and skill with weapons, so it would mean less to her personally than the nightgown which was likely meant to be for her to wear at some stage.

Yet, as usually the little dam didn’t let her personal feelings get in the way of her work and soldiered on with barely a rest.

As much of the clothes was unidentifiable. Oifa and two more umzâr spent a long time spreading them out as good as possible, pants and tunics to the left, coats to the right, boots along the far end of the hall.

Then umzâr came in small groups to take possession of the items that had been set aside for them according to their descriptions on the lists and to try to identify their clothes.

Many tears were shed and the pile of rubbish and ‘things to burn’ grew.

Bofur was great help in giving a comforting word or leading sobbing umzâr into the other room and settle them with some strong tea and a shoulder to lean on. Dwalin was well aware that he was not much help with that kind of work and stayed out of the way as much as possible. But he didn’t stop keeping an eye on Miss Oifa.

Because all the misery around her affected the little dam greatly. When the last umzâr finally left the hall she looked nearly as pale and harrowed as she did when Dwalin first laid eyes on her during the interviews on that very first day after he overheard her prayer.

“Come now, lass,” Bofur said and put an arm around her shoulder, stopping her from nearly stumbling over her own feet. “Time for you to get a small bite to eat, and then some rest.” And he accompanied her all the way back to the umzâr’s hall, all the while chatting about this and that in that jovial way of his in an attempt to distract her.

It seemed to help, because when she had a bowl of stew and a small ale in the umzâr’s hall there was a bit of colour in her cheeks and the lines around her mouth had softened considerably.

Fárni saw them briefly as she finished off her day and decreed that Oifa would not be doing the early morning shift, instead resting a few hours longer before beginning her day in the office, thank you very much. It was telling of her exhaustion that the little dam barely protested, but instead nodded in acceptance.

Dwalin shot Fárni a grateful look and ordered Bofur another ale when they ventured to one of the more rowdy pubs down towards the Miner’s Quarters later that evening.

 

= - = - =

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khuzdul thanks to the Dwarrow Scholar - and my own wranglings  
> umzâr: workers  
> umzâr’deshnâr: supreme workers  
> umzâr’idshân: lesser workers  
> Khazâd: Dwarrow  
> azlâdu: dominion  
> Izrikruk: Master  
> The Office of the Marshal of the Court of the Queen of England is an actual thing and dedicated to the organizing of guests and dignitaries. For my story I have given the Master (Izrikruk) of said office (azlâdu) also the responsibility to oversee the domestic servants.  
> Seneschal: A term that was used in medieval times for the Majordomo of a great house: he would have been in charge for domestic affairs and the administration of servants.


	9. The Hearing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathi's true colours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has fought me all the way ... But I needed to be done with it, so I stopped tweaking and here it is.

= - = - =

 

 

Several weeks later.

 

"We are summoned to the King's office," Lady Fárni told you one morning when she came knocking on the door to your room. The King’s office? You had been mopping and dusting in the corridors towards the Great Market and were in your work tunic.

"Will I have time to change?" you asked, a little panicked.

"Sure, sure," she said, smiling at you, "Just be quick. Dwalin is waiting to take us up."

You gave yourself a quick wash and changed into one of your new dresses, one in the colour or red jade, with the geometrical patterns dwarrow favoured in a deep purple garnet colour and black. The dress was in a modest cut, with thin long sleeves in the same fabric. There was no need for an apron and it had no separate bodice, which made for quick changing. There was no time to re-do your braids, but they were neat enough, six thick strands woven to the back off your head and held together with a wide red ribbon; the coif protecting your hair from the dust and holding them together nicely. You removed the ribbon and had them hanging loosely down your back, just smoothing some wayward hairs off your face.

Dwalin gave you a curt nod and a bow when you skidded down the hallway in your rush, followed by a quirk of his mouth and a smile.

But he had a rather serious air about him, you thought.

 

"There will be a hearing," Thorin said in a very kingly voice when you stood before the massive desk in his office.

You had not yet ventured into the Royal Wing for work and it was as intimidating as you had anticipated. Letting your eyes wander briefly around the very functionally furnished room with surprisingly few golden and jewel adornments you noticed the less than orderly cleaned out fireplace and a few more dirty mugs and tankards on the side table than you would have liked. Making a mental note to remedy that as soon as possible you also took in the rest of the people in the room. Lord Balin was there, as was Princess Dís. And Lord Glóin, the Royal Treasurer, who had an equally red and impressive beard as his wife; Fárni immediately stepping to her husband's side.

“A hearing regarding the misconduct and abuse of power of Nathi. It will not be public, but there will be a number of council members, guild masters, namely Bombur for the Kitchens and Bofur for the Miners, as well as Dori as the Royal Tailor, and a few others. There will be ample space for any umzâr who might wish to attend as well,” the King explained. He wore a richly decorated tunic and his thick raven hair was neatly brushed, his braids showing his family line and status framing his face. Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, was a most impressive dwarf, King or no. And he looked at you right now.

Remembering what he said you nodded quickly and bowed your head. “Thank you, your Majesty, that is very kind. I’m sure many will appreciate the opportunity to be present, if their duties allow it.”

The King’s stern demeanour softened considerably at your words, and he smiled at you. “I see that nothing I’ve heard about you has been exaggerated, Miss Oifa. I am certain Ovdari would have said exactly the same.” Your eyes widened and you looked up at him shyly, remembering all the stories Dwalin had told about the mischief in their youth. Then the King became serious once more. “After we found out about Nathi’s misconduct we sent word to Ered Luin, the Iron Hills and the Grey Hills in an attempt to gather more information about him. Two dams and one of his former fellow scribes in Ered Luin came forward, implicating him even more. We know that Vira has not returned to the Grey Hills, nor did she appear to seek shelter anywhere else. Unfortunately, Vira is not the only one unaccounted for,” the King said, looking at you seriously.

Your heart fell.

“A cross check of the names listed by the Gatemaster and those currently working as umzar in Erebor revealed that we are missing not only her, but also two other dams, and four dwarrow. Thankfully, the four dwarrow have been found in the Iron Hills. They tell a harrowing tale of abuse and illness, and how they ran away from Erebor in the dead of night, making the week-long journey with no supplies and only the clothes on their backs. They have distant family in the Iron Hills, which are taking care of them. Our cousin, King Dain, has taken the statements of those four dwarrow, and we mean to include those statements in the hearing. It still leaves the whereabouts of Vira and the two other dams, Bretta and Merethe.” The King searched your face. “Do you know these dams?”

You vaguely remember a russet and a raven haired dam, but you never spoke to them. “They were both umzâr’deshnâr,” you said quietly, “I believe I knew their faces well enough to put a name to them, your Majesty, but no more than that I’m afraid. It’s been years that I’ve seen them last.”

The King looked at you gravely. "You may not know this as yet, Miss Oifa, but Nathi has originally been arrested because he assaulted a dam and was caught in the act by Dwalin.” Your eyes widened in shock and your gaze darted to the tall dwarf who gave you a grim nod in confirmation. No, you had not known that, but a lot of things made sense now. “That dam has refused to give evidence. She is still much shaken, and is afraid that if she speaks in public it will reflect more badly on her than on Nathi." He paused. "We have decided that Dwalin will speak on her behalf, without mentioning her name. Since it appears that Vira also had to deal with Nathi’s ... advances,” here the King sneered and his eyes became very hard, “it is not unreasonable to assume that the other two missing dams have a similar story to tell. Unfortunately, until we find them we will not know for sure and cannot use their accounts against Nathi.” His gaze slid to Balin and his sister briefly. “We have decided that we will not mention how the umzâr’deshnâr have gained their slightly better status. Unless Nathi brings it up himself - and he would be a fool indeed if he does - we will do everything we can to keep the choices of those poor souls to ourselves. But we need someone from the umzâr to take a stand. Therefore I would, Miss Oifa, ask you to give evidence at the hearing. Tell us again how new arrivals were being sorted and sent to Nathi. About the many chores and tasks, their tedious and dangerous nature. How life was for the umzâr in Nathi’s azlâdu."

Your stomach sank down to your knees. Holding your breath you slowly shook your head. "No-," you began. Swallowing hard you cleared your throat. "I ... please ... I don't want to do that. I have told you everything already, don't make me say it again. Please-" you trailed off, your eyes wide. It had been a wretched experience before; you didn’t once more want to feel as exhausted as it had you left last time.

The King sighed. "I understand your hesitation-."

"No," you interrupted in a whisper, trembling when you realized you _interrupted_ the King and worrying your hands, "I am not hesitating. I don’t ... I can’t ... What if ..." You faltered, not able to voice that you were afraid what Nathi could do to you, even from a cell in the dungeons. Surely he had influential friends? What about the Gatemaster? And the guards that were happy to overstep? And weren’t you given enough honour already, to have been chosen to work with Fárni? Why should you be singled out even more? And wouldn’t the council members think you totally overstepped your place?

"Nothing can happen to you," the King assured you, very sincerely.

"You're afraid because of the guards, aren't you?" Dwalin spoke up in his deep voice, stepping closer, "The guards that did Nathi’s bidding. The ones that were free to misbehave ..."

You looked up at him with wide eyes. Averting his intense gaze, you nodded.

"Will you believe me if I say that I have personally dealt with them?” he asked softly, placing a big hand gently on your shoulder. “Can you trust my word that none of them is any longer in a position to haunt your steps, or the steps of any umzâr ever again, no matter what you say about them?”

Licking your lips you focused on the steady warmth of his hand and his deep, soothing voice and took a shuddering breath and nodded.

“And if you’re afraid of Nathi, don’t be,” the tall dwarf continued, his voice going even deeper, “He is a lone dwarf in a small cell in the dungeons, he has no influence, no friends, he is no danger. Not to anyone, and certainly not, Miss Oifa, to you.”

“A lot of people watch over you, my dear,” Fárni added and walked to your other side to put an arm around your shoulder, “You are save.”

“But ... but the council, they ... they will think ... I am not a complainer, it’s not what I am,” you managed, with as much dignity as you could muster.

“No,” Dwalin smiled, his free hand stroking his beard while he looked down at you rather fondly, “That you are not, there is no doubt about that. On the contrary.”

“You are much like Ovdari,” the King added softly and shared a knowing look with Dwalin, “Many on the council will remember him well. He always stood up for his umzâr. You’d be doing much the same. Will you consider it? In your grand-Sire’s memory?”

You shot a look at the King, reading in his eyes that he knew exactly that he was not playing _fair_. But he was right. Ovdari would not have backed down if it came to defending his umzâr.

You gave a curt nod. And then another, more firmly. You pressed your lips together in determination. “I’ll do it.”

 

 

= - = -

 

 

The hearing took part two days later.

You had progressively gotten more and more anxious, work doing nothing to distract you. Finishing a few hours in the mangle room you tried to eat breakfast - unsuccessfully. Taking your time to get yourself changed and making yourself presentable, you chose the same modest dress you were wearing when you had been summoned before the King, and painstakingly went through the effort of braiding your hair especially neatly.

Dwalin picked you up. Your hands clenched in your dress as you stepped up beside him, quickly averting your eyes after a mumbled “Good morning, Mylord” and a curtsy.

The dwarf didn’t move and didn’t respond but stood and seemed to wait for something. Confused you lifted your eyes and looked at him. As soon as your gaze locked with his he smiled widely, and you realized that he had _waited_ for you to look at him. He stood not two feet away and you could smell him: weapon’s oil, leather, metal - and Dwalin. His steel grey eyes were astonishingly warm and standing so close you could feel the dwarrow furnace-heat emanating from his body. He was wearing his usual green armour but it was rather obvious that there was a lot of muscle packed under that armour. Dwalin was a mighty warrior indeed. Glazing over his face quickly you blushed as his smile intensified. Your eyes darted to his mouth, so well surrounded by a well-kept bushy moustache and beard - and the set of strong teeth that grinned at you before your breath hitched a little when you spotted the _dimple_.

Dwalin had a dimple on his right cheek, barely visible in his beard, unless one knew where to look.

It was rather unexpected.

And it was rather ... fetching.

With much effort you lifted your eyes to his again, realizing that you had stopped breathing.

“Good morning to you, too, Miss Oifa,” he rumbled, his deep voice soft. “Let me say that I have no doubt you will be making a splendid figure at the hearing today.”

Your face fell momentarily. For a few seconds you had forgotten about the hearing. With a sigh you nodded. “I’ll do my best, Mylord Dwalin.”

“Dwalin,” he said quietly, “Please call me Dwalin.”

Lost in his eyes once more you nearly forgot your own name when footsteps neared. Jarspur, a few other guards and a dozen umzâr were assembling in the hallway. “We are ready, Mahazbad,” Jarspur reported to Dwalin as he came over.

“Let’s go then,” the tall dwarf replied and took your elbow gently with his massive hand, steering you to the head of the group.

 

 

~*~

 

 

The hearing took place in one of the larger council rooms. To one side, behind several tables, was a row of elaborate chairs, the large one in the middle clearly the King’s seat. One lone chair stood to on the right wall. To the left wall was a line of several more tables with chairs behind them, the rest of the room was filled with rows of benches.

Dwalin steered you to the tables on the left, next to Fárni, who smiled at you and squeezed your hand encouragingly. Glóin sat next to her, and the Healer, Óin, then Bofur, who gave you a wink, you recognized Dori and Aggi. The impeccably dressed and braided Royal Tailor gave you a good look over with a critical eye and you blushed when he gave you a pleased nod, obviously happy with your appearance. One more dwarf sat there, which you didn’t know: a rather rotund one with a circle beard.

The umzâr silently slid onto the benches, looking very intimidated. Jarspur and the guards took up position next to the lone chair.

A side door opened and Balin, the Royal Advisor entered, carrying a stack of papers, followed by Princess Dís and several very imposing looking dwarrow which you assumed were the council members Thorin had mentioned. Each of them found their seat at one of the elaborate chairs and stood before it. The Princess made eye contact with you for a moment and you gave her a quick curtsy. The corners of her mouth quirked and she inclined her head at you in greeting; even from the distance you could tell her eyes were twinkling when she saw you blush at that.

Balin looked over the assembly briefly before announcing “The King.”

Anyone not yet standing immediately rose; you hurried to get to your feet, too.

The King strode into the room with a purposeful gait. He was dressed in full armour and wore a black robe with fur collar and his crown. He made a very different picture than the dwarf you met in his office, but no less intimidating - clearly, clothing did nothing to change his royal aura. He took his seat and everybody shuffled to do the same.

The King nodded at his Royal Advisor, signaling to begin proceedings. Balin cleared his throat. “The hearing into the misconduct and abuse of power of Nathi, son of Pothi, is now in session. Bring forth the prisoner.”

The side door opened again and Dwalin emerged, fearsome scowl on his face. In your distraction you hadn’t even realized he had left and couldn’t help but feel rather taken aback by his dark expression, considering you _knew_ he had a lovely smile and had just seen it not long ago. But then two other guards followed him, with Nathi between them and you understood Dwalin’s scowl.

It had been several weeks since you had last seen Nathi. And in all the years of your work as umzâr you never really had _looked_ at the dwarf, as he demanded the umzâr avert their eyes when in his presence. Of course you sneaked sidelong looks when his back was turned but the only time you made eye contact with him was when you first arrived and brought before him. Fighting the urge to lower your gaze out of habit you took the chance to take him in fully. He was not a good looking dwarf: not small in stature he had a tendency to look soft, with thick fleshy lips and a high forehead. He obviously had been given a chance to wash and tend to his appearance, as his hair and beard were clean and neat, his sideburns gathered in two thick braids as well as his moustache, leaving the hair free double chin all too visible. Nathi was wearing the rich clothes and heavily starched shirts as he always had, with one belt holding up his trousers, and a second, ridiculously wide one holding together his large stomach. The puffy sleeves of his doublet stood out against the short sleeved coat he wore, which was adorned with fur. Although he clearly had lost weight and his face was more sallow than it used to be and he had dark shadows under his eyes, his expression was the same: smooth and benign. Unassuming. Helpful, even eager to be of service. You knew that many had fallen into the trap of believing a dwarf with such an expression could never have the same character as the dwarf you had come to fear.

Nathi bowed deeply to the King and was about to continue bowing to the Princess and the council members when the guards pushed him into the lone chair without much ceremony.

Dwalin immediately took up position in front of Thorin and also bowed. “Your Majesty,” he began the formal proceedings, his deep voice loud and clear, “I have brought before you Nathi, son of Pothi, whose office I entered on a night several weeks ago during a routine round through the mountain, where I found him touching a dam without her consent.” There was a collective gasp of surprise from the umzâr in the room. “Upon immediately arresting him I have launched an investigation into his person and into his office. Others will say more regarding his office. Regarding his person it is to say that after searching his quarters I have found all signs of a ...” he threw a dark look sideways at Nathi, “a very two faced individual.”

“Two faced,” one of the council members interjected, “How so?”

Dwalin explained about the living conditions, about the very different furnished rooms, about the undue opulence in bedroom and bathroom, as well as about the hidden stash of powders.

“And you would call this opulence undue because?” another council member wanted to know.

“Few employees of the Crown could afford the items Nathi has in those rooms,” Dwalin said simply, “Certainly not one employed as Seneschal.”

“The Royal Treasurer has more on that in a moment,” Balin interjected, “Do you have anything more to add, Lord Dwalin?”

Dwalin nodded and continued to explain about how the umzâr were interviewed on the first day, about the dirty, haggard, worn out impression they made. He mentioned that the corrupt guards had been replaced and dealt with already. He explained how it was the former guard’s statements that lead to the discovery of the abandoned mineshaft filled with the umzâr’s personal belongings and the efforts that had been undertaken to re-unite items with their owners and how much was missing. Dwalin spoke clear and concise and you could tell by the dark looks of the council members that they were not happy with all that was being revealed about Nathi’s azlâdu.

When Dwalin was done he took up position at the high end of the room, near his brother. Balin called upon Lord Glóin to make his statement. The Royal Treasurer rose and rattled through a list of items found in Nathi’s rooms, adding their estimated worth - the sum made your head spin and the other umzâr in the room whisper - making it clear that Nathi could not ever, in his lifetime, afford them. “The identification of some items is ongoing; as we have not been able find sufficient maker’s marks or any provenance to tell us their exact origins. We assume they have been items crafted within Erebor by some of her most distinguished crafters and were but a step away from being finished before Smaug came and put an end to all those endeavours. We are going through the crafter’s log and design books at the moment. The brush and comb set with Mithril inlay as well as the mirror framed by emerald cut diamonds and rubies however, as well as two tapestries and carpets have been identified as stolen. Stolen, in fact, from within Erebor. All these items have been listed as missing by returning families.”

Thus far Nathi had sat silent, you had observed him fidget a few times while Dwalin spoke, but now he could not hold back any longer, and jumped to his feet “I beg your pardon?” he burst out indignantly, pushing himself up to his full height, “Are you calling me a thief?”

The guards at his side yanked him back with rough hands, and pushed him back down into his chair.

Balin cleared his throat pointedly. “Nathi, son of Pothi, I advise you strongly to wait until you are called upon. Calling out unasked is not a practice used at King Thorin’s court. You will get your chance to speak and explain yourself, but until then you should sit very quietly, pay close attention to all that is being said and begin formulating your explanations and defense.”

“As if that will make any difference,” Lady Fárni mumbled next to you, not making it clear whether she meant the fact that Nathi likely won’t remain silent or whether she meant that regardless of any defense he might formulate a verdict had already been reached.

Glóin shot a vicious look at the dwarf on his lone chair before he sat back down.

Then Óin spoke, yelled, rather. The healer outlined briefly the bad physical shape he had found the majority of the umzâr in, and their explanations of past ailments such as dizziness, upset stomachs, drowsiness, even convulsions. He lamented that no healers had ever been called to the Nathi’s azlâdu and that no umzâr ever presented in the Healer’s Wing for treatment. Óin also reported to have successfully identified the powders and dried herbs found in the secret compartment in Nathi’s bathroom as traditional remedies, namely wormwood, coneflower and valerian, but he stressed that excessive amounts of those very herbs could well cause any and all of the mentioned ailments.

The rotund dwarf with the circle beard rose next. He turned out to be Lord Bombur, the Master of Erebor’s Kitchen’s. Judging by his robust physique, he knew of food and feeding not only from theory. Indeed, his expression was one of disgust as he described the state of the umzâr’s kitchen and foodstores. An architect by trade, it was at his doing that the pulley system was installed to deliver meals directly from the main kitchen to the umzâr’s hall. He vowed that no umzâr would be subjected to bad or inadequate food any more. Bombur’s hearty indignation made your heart swell.

Only when Lord Balin called Bofur you realized that he and Bombur were brothers. Bofur didn’t sugarcoat his thoughts of the chimney flutes and how the umzâr had been cleaning them. You knew the flutes were important to keep the air in the mountain clean and to heat it, of course, but it had never occurred to you that their very existence was a matter of pride as they were unique amongst Khazâd dwellings. When the discussion about them turned rather technical, with some of the council members asking very specific questions you had no hope of even remotely understanding, and Bofur answering patiently and in equally technical terms - if in far less elaborate wording - it dawned on you that the very existence of the mountain may have been threatened by neglecting the dangers of having these flutes blocked and - in a worst case scenario - even explode. You were already relieved to be free from that chore, but now you were also eternally grateful for it. Judging by the mumbling of the umzâr in the room they agreed.

When Bofur sat down, Dori rose, smoothing some non-existing crinkles on his immaculate garnet coloured silk tunic before briefly describing the rags - he refused to call them clothes - the umzâr had been found wearing, and how he and his assistants had supplied all of you with new, far more suitable work attire, head to toe. He was the first to mention your name, nodding into your direction with a soft smile when he retold how you had explained the different duties to him and Lady Fárni. You shrunk in your seat when you felt the eyes of all present swivel to you and intertwined your fingers in your lap under the table to stop them from clenching nervously.

Fárni patted your arm briefly before it was her turn to explain how she took over Nathi’s responsibilities, the issues she had encountered regarding the different duties and the working conditions, how the terrible living quarters of the umzâr had been changed and their whole lives’ been turned around for the better. Then she mentioned that she could not have done it without you, smiling down at you warmly.

Realizing that now your time had come you steeled yourself, sent a quick, silent prayer to Mahal, and managed to get to your feet without trembling too much when Lord Balin called your name, with mention of your ancestry. There was a murmur from some of the council members and one raised his voice and you thought you detected a tinge of recognition. “You are a granddaughter of Seneschal Ovdari?”

You nodded and gave a small courtesy while meeting his eyes. “I am, Mylord.”

Nathi snorted, earning himself not only a dark, reproachful look from Lord Balin, but also one from the King himself. Nathi seemed to remember then that his time to utter either words or sounds had not yet come, while you suddenly felt a surge of protective pride. The horrid dwarf may have managed to trod all over you for years, but you would not give him the power to dishonour your grandfather’s legacy. Remembering everything Dwalin had told you about Ovdari you tried to channel the formidable dwarf and began your tale. Telling it a second time was no easier than the first; the only thing that was better this time was that your brain didn’t feel as fuzzy as you were not nearly as exhausted as you had been then. Fárni was a soothing presence at your side, and when your eyes once darted to Dwalin, whose towering figure stood still and steady, the warrior _smiled_ at you. Staring at the dimple for a moment you briefly lost track in your tale. While you took a deep breath to find your bearings once more and focus at the task at hand, Princess Dís subtly cleared her throat. “You have done well, Miss Oifa, and we are grateful for the courage you have mustered to speak about these things once more. We know well it has not been an easy thing to do.” Her gaze found the Royal Advisor. “I believe, Lord Balin, you have some things to add?”

Lord Balin nodded. “Yes, thank you, your Highness.” He asked you to take your seat once more and then proceeded to read out the Gatemaster’s statement, one he gave under oath, as the dwarf himself was no longer residing in Erebor, having been released of his duties and sent from the mountain in disgrace. Only because of his willingness to cooperate he was able to keep his braids and beard. The Gatemaster confessed to knowing how the umzâr were treated under Nathi and that he had been a willing conspirator in sorting new arrivals accordingly. Even in his greed the Gatemaster seemed to have his wits together enough to keep exact book about which items and how much financial favours he received from Nathi over the years, giving a detailed summary in writing - which Balin now held up. “It is available for you to read through it should you wish it, Mylords,” he bowed slightly to the council members, one or two nodding gravely, indicating that they would indeed be wanting to do that.

“Comparing the Gatemaster’s records with the umzâr currently working in the mountain we have three dams missing: Vira, Bretta and Merethe. Vira has not been seen since last Durin’s Day, and there have been no signs of Bretta and Merethe since Mahigkêkh nearly four years ago. We were also missing four dwarrow, but they have been found in the Iron Hills. King Dain has questioned them and this is their statement.” It was not easy to listen to the statement Balin read out. It spoke of misery, despair, desperation and near starvation. The four dwarrow had not sugarcoated anything. You were glad that they had made it to the Iron Hills and that they were now with family and taken care of.

But your heart ached for Vira, Bretta and Merethe. Where could they have gone?

“Considering the situation Lord Dwalin discovered Nathi in one might question whether this was the first time such an incident occurred,” Lord Balin asserted grimly, “Reaching out to Ered Luin, where Nathi was born and has lived all his live before coming to Erebor, training as a scribe and indeed working as a scribe on the minor council, just as his father did before him, we have the sworn statements of two dams who say that they, too, have been propositioned by Nathi against their will. Neither has known of the other. We also have the statement of a fellow scribe of Nathi’s, who gives evidence regarding forged signatures. The Lord Treasurer’s apprentice has more on that.”

Balin indicated at Aggi to give his report. Glóin’s apprentice squinted down on a piece of parchment as he reported his findings about Nathi’s books. While appearing to be orderly at first glance and no big sums ever standing out, Aggi explained, almost gleefully, how he eventually discovered discrepancies between monies Nathi requested for his azlâdu from the Royal Treasury, as well as orders for goods, such as clothing, food, furniture and repairs, all of which clearly never went to the welfare of the umzâr, but instead were delivered to merchants of Men in Dale, west of the Misty Mountains, and even as far as Gondor, obviously merchants of the shadier reputation, that didn’t question how they ended up with large quantities of anything from barrels of ale to pillows to silken table cloths. Reading out the huge quantities of items Nathi had ordered for the umzâr and then sold on was staggering and it was clear that he could have lived well from that money alone. But then Aggi added the sums Nathi had requested in gold, to pay for repairs, not only in his azlâdu but also in order to run maintenance for other parts of the mountain, like the guild halls, council chambers, communal hall, repairs and maintenance that never really happened, but for which Nathi forged the signatures of the craftsdwarrow he allegedly commissioned to be doing the work.

By the end of Aggi’s statement the King’s lips were a thin line and he barely concealed his anger.

Once the young dwarf took his seat next to Glóin once more Balin cleared his throat. “Have any present any more to add? No? Then Nathi, son of Pothi, it is now your turn to give this hearing your explanation of how your azlâdu possibly could have ended up being in such shambles and speak in your defense regarding the reports of theft, embezzlement, forgery and assault.” Balin’s voice was professional, but the way he shuffled his papers into a pile clearly indicated that he did not believe there was any explanation good enough to justify any of it.

Getting to his feet and interlacing his thick, ring bedecked fingers in front of his stomach Nathi bowed several times respectfully to the King, the Princess and the council members. “Let me begin by saying that ever since I have arrived in Erebor, my Lord Advisor, I have considered it an honour to serve the Kingdom. I have no explanation as to how things are as bad as you have found them.” He bowed again and was silent.

In fact, everybody was silent, trying to make sense of what they had heard him say.

Then Balin frowned. “I am not sure what you are trying to say, Nathi, son of Pothi, but it sounds to me you are indicating the bad way we found your azlâdu in is utter news to you?”

Nathi nodded with another bow. “Naturally, my Lord Advisor,” he said, smiling benignly, as if he was pleased Balin had caught on so quickly.

Dís snorted. “Your umzâr were near starved and in a shape no different to slaves of Men and your azlâdu was a filthy, decrepit place. Spending time down there any fool could see that _things were bad_ , as you put it. The question is why you, Nathi, son of Pothi, did let it get to that point in the first place and made no attempts to remedy that after it reached that state of misery. And I’m not even talking about any of the other wrongdoings.”

“Again, your Highness, I have no explanation as how things were as bad as you found them,” Nathi said again with that smile of his.

One of the council members cleared his throat. “Surely you are not trying to say that things were perfectly in order in your azlâdu, and from one day to the next all went downhill?”

Nathi smiled widely and bowed again. “That is indeed what I am saying, Mylord.”

What? You were confused.

For a moment the silence in the room was absolute.

“How would that be possible?” Balin asked deceptively mild, his white eyebrows almost up to his hairline, his eyes piercing, “To find things one way in the evening, and in another the next morning?”

“An elaborate effort, no question about it, Lord Advisor,” Nathi said with a small shrug.

“Are you indicating you believe this whole affair has been staged?” another council member inquired incredulously.

Nathi shrugged again. “How else would it be possible to fabricate such lies, Mylord?”

Shocked muttering rippled through the umzâr behind you, and angry grumbles came from all the dwarrow that had given statements. Dwalin’s expression turned positively murderous.

“That rukhs'utn,” Fárni mumbled and balled her fists.

“You must be delusional if you’re thinking all the evidence that has been heard here today has been fabricated to incriminate you,” Balin said with a smile, but his tone was cold. “How would such a thing even be possible?”

“Well, isn’t it mainly members of the famed Company who have spoken today?” Nathi said with an almost serenely smile and you had to wonder about his state of mind. “Naturally, they would be well able to keep a story like that in house, if you will, and back each other up to make everything appear cohesive.”

Gloin was on his feet. “Abrâfu shaikmashâz!” 

“I find it quite bold,” came the rich voice of the King, with so much sharpness in his tone that he could have cut through parchment with his very words, immediately shutting up every other outburst, “that you would have the nerve to insinuate I would give orders to those most loyal to me to fabricate facts where there are none, that I would give orders to lie. Because that’s what I’m assuming you mean about ‘in house’.”

Nathi had the sense to look apologetic. “Your Majesty, I-“

The King waved him off. “No, no, Nathi, don’t be shy now. You can’t stand there and basically accuse me of conspiring to discredit your name without telling me why in Mahal’s name I would possibly be wanting to do that.”

“I confess I do not see the reason, your Majesty,” Nathi responded, almost looking abashed, and bowed deeply. “I am at a loss. It is clear there is a plot against me. As to why and how I cannot possibly fathom.”

Dwalin snorted.

Nathi’s eyes immediately swiveled to him. “Indeed, my Lord Dwalin. I do wonder. Since it all has begun with you. Where is this dam that I _allegedly_ assaulted? Why is she not giving evidence?”

“Are you saying I would make up lies?” Dwalin thundered, unfolding his arms from his chest and taking a threatening step forward.

“Nobody would dare, my Lord Dwalin,” one of the council members assured him, waving a hand impatiently, “but it is a just question. Where is that dam?”

Dwalin planted his feet squarely and straightened his back. “As I have stated previously, Mylord, the dam was utterly shaken on the night and in a terrible state. In fact, she is still shaken today. So much so that she has refused to give evidence. She is too frightened. It would not do to force her to speak against her will. Too much undue force has been put onto the umzâr already. You will have to take my word for it, that upon entering Nathi’s office my eyes immediately fell on the accused, groping that dam, who was both very loosely clothed and crying. There is no way I possibly could have misunderstood or misinterpreted what was going on. And I certainly did not fabricate this story. It is a preposterous suggestion. I have not told a lie in all my life.”

“Let’s not forget the two dams in Ered Luin, who also have given evidence of having been assaulted by Nathi,” Balin interceded, “It appears to be a pattern, and I do not believe for a moment these three are the only ones who had to deal with Nathi’s most questionable advances. But it is up to each dwarf or dam that has been assaulted in such a manner to come forward on their own. We could not, would not, force them to.” He looked directly at Nathi. “Where is Vira? Bretta? Merethe?”

Nathi shrugged again. “How should I know. Likely throwing themselves at another dwarf. It’s all dams with no other skills can do. Promiscuity, in the hopes of advancing their lives. Too lazy to learn a trade and with no interest or skills other than those of the more carnal nature. And as soon as a dwarf remains steadfast and refuses their pursuits they turn vengeful and begin spreading lies. Mahal only knows how the likes of them managed to sink their hooks into honourable dwarrow, all to gain favours of one sort or another. It is disappointing, really.” He lifted his ringed hands in a sagely gesture. “To think dwarrow of such renown would fall for such a thing.”

Silence rang loudly for a moment.

Then Glóin was on his feet, followed immediately by Bombur. “You dare suggest I betray my wife?” he bellowed and the rotund dwarf glared at Nathi, showing the same outrage. He must have a wife as well, you thought, and watched as Bofur hastily pulled on his enraged brother’s sleeves to get him to sit down again.

Fárni rose and looked angrily at the podgy dwarf who had dared to besmudge the most consecrated union amongst dwarrow, that of marriage, raising a fist into his direction. “I take insult, Nathi, son of Pothi, for you to suggest my husband would dishonour our marriage vows. It is not to be born.” She folded her arms before her chest and looked at the King.

The King nodded at the dam. “I recognize your claim, Lady Fárni,” he said, “But we digress.”

“Indeed we do,” Princess Dís spoke, her eyes flashing in anger. “Nathi, you are a dishonourable fool and every word out of your unworthy mouth proves that. I have been present myself when the umzâr were individually interviewed. There can be no doubt about their state or the state of your azlâdu. And I, too, take insult for you to insinuate any reports we’ve heard today have been fabricated, at order of my brother, no less. I will not stand by and have you speak ill of my family or insult my intelligence.”

Balin lifted his hands. “Let’s stick to the facts,” he suggested in a placating manner, trying to bring proceedings back on track. “Numbers don’t lie. How do you explain the discovered discrepancies in your books and the forged signatures? Signatures of several craftsdwarrow who swear they have never worked for you nor have ever received payment for services rendered.”

“Again, I-“ Nathi began.

“You have none,” the King interrupted bluntly. “How do you explain the statements our cousin Dain took of the four dwarrow fleeing our Kingdom? Do you suggest the King of the Iron Hills lies, too?”

The umzâr whispered agitatedly behind you.

“Your Majesty, I’m sure the dwarrow in question were exceptionally good at-“

“The Gatemaster and the guards have spoken against you, confessing their own part in the treatment of the umzâr, at their own peril,” the King boomed, “Their statements have thrown light on a darkness within my mountain I have never thought possible.”

Nathi bowed his head slightly, but did not speak.

“You have amongst your personal possessions items that others have reported missing. How come you by these?” Balin asked.

“One dwarf’s discarded item is another dwarf’s treasure, my Lord Advisor. Many a dwarrow have happily let go of relics of a happy past, as they cannot share them any longer with loved ones who perished when the dragon took Erebor. Bad memories, you understand.” Nathi said in a tone that suggested he considered it a charity he helped those dwarrow out by purchasing their unwanted items.

“What a load of rubbish,” Dwalin could be heard grunting.

Nathi’s eyes slid to him and narrowed briefly. He was about to respond something when one council member simply spoke over him. “You have left the umzâr to live in squalor and misery. Their state and the state of your azlâdu has been seen by a lot of people, people with flawless reputation,” he said. “You cannot possibly believe that someone like old Ovdari’s granddaughter would be a part of such a deception. He was a beacon of honour and respectability. How she, with a grand-Sire like that, would even be treated as she said was the norm for all unskilled dwarrow that arrived at the mountain without a family to claim them is scandalous, not to mention the more than lax consideration of safety for the more perilous chores. It is not how one in a position of leadership should conduct himself against those in his care.”

Nathi’s eyes turned on you. They were dark and so full of anger and malice that you physically recoiled in your seat. The umzâr turned dead silent, their fear could suddenly be felt in the room.

Dwalin growled and moved across the room, stopping in-between Nathi and you, effectively stopping the glares the disgraced dwarf threw into your direction. But he couldn’t stop him from speaking, which he did now, his voice betraying anger, frustration and even hatred for the first time. “No matter who her Sire was, she’s nothing more than a little jumped up dam with illusions of grandeur, thinking she could take over my position. How did she earn such trust and confidence? And at her age, none the less. But then again her young age is likely working in her favour, and she probably is just another of those dams with no trade and no skills to speak of but with the short sided aptitude for bettering her situation by using her charms to turn the heads of dwarrow in positions of influence.”

Your insides turned to ice. You felt all the colour drain from your face and like being hit in the stomach. What what’s he saying? What was Nathi _saying_? How could he even suggest such a thing? Tears shot into your eyes. Dimly you realized Fárni’s arm around your shoulder.

Jarspur’s face was dark with anger and Dwalin’s hand went to his axe.

Balin’s voice cut in. “You make no sense. If Miss Oifa would have wanted to take over her grandfather’s position and have you disposed of yours in a scrupulous way as you indicate she would have been better off not working like a slave of Men for you for nearly six years but simply petition the reinstatement of her family’s tradition at Open Court straight after her arrival in Erebor. Her grandfather is well remembered by many. He was a formidable dwarf of impeccable reputation. As she has presented herself these past weeks she is more than capable in taking over that position and the Crown very likely would have decided in her favour.”

“Her grandfather may have been a dwarf of stature, but the filthy dam is still just a little cur who seeks to destroy me and my good reputation. How can you fall for that?” Nathi yelled and Dwalin lifted his axe.

You threw your hands over your face in shock at his words and barely held in a sob.

“Enough!” Thorin’s voice was like thunder. “I will have no more of this. Remove this vile kakhuf inbarathrag from my sight and throw him back into the dungeon,” he ordered, “May he spit his delusional venom there, with only the damp walls to listen to him.”

You heard Nathi cry out and the clinking of armour and the shuffling of heavy boots, before a door fell shut and it was silent in the room once more, apart from small whimpers and the sound of soft crying from some of the umzâr.

The council members mumbled amongst themselves and Fárni’s arm was still around you. “He’s gone, mahdith, it’s over now. Don’t be afraid. He’s just vile words and delusional hatred. He cannot touch you, we won’t ever allow it.”

You nodded even as you shook like a leaf.

“How do you intend to proceed in this matter, you Majesty?” Balin’s voice asked.

Looking up hesitantly you found the King’s eyes on you. His face was still twisted in anger but all that anger drained away as he looked at you. Contemplating for a moment he finally spoke. “We have heard enough. After all he’s done that worm has shown his true colours for everyone to see. It is bad enough he had a past in my mountain, he definitely won’t be having a future.”

“You wish him shaved and exiled, my King?” One council member asked, looking thoroughly agreeable with that idea.

“No,” the King said and held your gaze as the umzâr gasped. “We still don’t know where Vira is. Or Bretta. Or Merethe. I’ll not have dams go missing from my mountain and not turn over every stone possible in an attempt to find them.”

Dís nodded grimly. The King exchanged a look with his advisor.

“This hearing is adjourned,” Balin said and gave a nod to Jarspur. Turning to the umzâr the Royal Advisor’s features softened. “It is good to see you all looking so much better under Lady Fárni’s and Miss Oifa’s care,” he said and smiled, his eyes twinkling, earning himself some tentative smiles in return. “If any of you have more to ad or wish to come forth with any more information against Nathi, please do not hesitate to approach Lady Fárni or Miss Oifa, or any present here today. Whatever you say will be kept in absolute confidence. Thank you for coming.”

Such dismissed, the umzâr shuffled to their feet and you did, too, thinking to follow them, but Fárni held you back with a little shake of her head. It took mere moments for the guards and the umzâr to leave the room and Jarspur closed the doors behind them with a soft thud.

One council member cleared his throat. “The evidence against Nathi is staggering, your Majesty. There can be no doubt about his guilt. Therefore I cannot help but wonder why this hearing was taking place at all. There is plenty of material to sentence him.”

The King sighed. “It is true,” he said, tapping a finger on the table before him before finding your eyes once more. “This hearing was unnecessary in order to determine the guilt of that dwarf.” The King tilted his head to the side and gave you a small, apologetic smile. “Our aim today was to present all our evidence in the hopes that Nathi would come to realize that there is no defense he could possibly raise.”

You took a shuddering breath. A ruse, you realized.

“We had hoped Nathi would feel backed into a corner. Enough to reveal the whereabouts of the missing dams,” Balin spoke up, confirming your thoughts.

“We hold grave concerns for them,” the Princess said, “None of our contacts has been able to find even the hair of a trace of them. It is as if they have disappeared. But we all know that nobody just disappears. Someone would have seen them. Someone would know _something_.”

“Maybe any of the other umzâr?” another council member speculated.

“Maybe,” Balin said, looking at you. “The hearing today had three purposes, really. One was to win some more time for our informants to continue their investigations, in Ered Luin, in the Iron Hills and in the Grey Hills. Second, one of the umzâr might know anything about those three missing dams that we haven’t yet heard and feel encouraged to come forth. And third, Nathi might have caved in in light of the evidence against him and tell us right-out what he knows.”

“If he knows anything,” another council member countered.

The King let out a raspy, humourless laugh. “Oh, he knows,” he said and hit the flat of his hand lightly on the table, “There is little doubt about that.”

The door opened and Dwalin came back into the room. His scowl was still present as he bowed to his King. “The filth is back in his cell, your Majesty. He has been wailing all the way there, but unfortunately nothing of substance has come out of his mouth.” Tilting his head in acknowledgment the King rose and walked around the table. Dwalin turned and his eyes found you, Fárni’s arm still around your shoulders. The scowl softened considerably.

After a pause Balin commented: “It would be easy to find the truth by using force on Nathi.”

“Aye,” one of the council members agreed, “That dwarf is no warrior. He is soft and it would take little to make him speak.”

Your eyes widened. Torture. They spoke of torture.

But the King took one look at your face and immediately shook his head. “There is nothing wrong with having led a life that has not been marred by war and battle,” he said with conviction, crossed the room and stopped before you. “I do not want to go down that path. Not unless I have no other choice.” He bent his head slightly to look into your eyes. “I am sorry Nathi’s wrath was directed against you in his outburst. It was uncalled for. I want you to know, Miss Oifa, that there is nobody that shares his thoughts. Not even remotely. You are a blessing, Oifa, daughter of Ove, son of Ovdari, and my mountain will be much better off for all your efforts.”

 

= - = - =

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always: Cuptivate is on Pinterest and this story has its own board. In case you want to see Dwalin's dimple ;)
> 
> The herbs mentioned, wormwood, coneflower (Echinacea) and valerian are indeed herbs that were used in traditional medicine, and are still used today. As with all herbs, over-consumption can be highly dangerous and would have negative effects, in the case of Wormwood convulsions, Coneflower stomach upsets and dizziness, and Valerian headaches, increase in heart rate and due to its soporific effect drowsiness and sleep. 
> 
> Khuzdul thanks to the Dwarrow Scholar - and my own wranglings  
> umzâr: workers  
> umzâr’deshnâr: supreme workers  
> umzâr’idshân: lesser workers  
> Khazâd: Dwarrow  
> azlâdu: dominion  
> Izrikruk: Master   
> Mahazbad – Commander (from to command – mahazbud and Lord - Uzbad)  
> Mahigkêkh - May  
> Rukhs’utn – orc man/half orc, shorter in statue, vile, mean  
> Kakhuf inbarathrag – goat turd  
> Mahdith – Blessing that is young  
> Abrâfu shaikmashâz! - You) descendant of rats!


	10. The Best Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tempers simmer, everyone is busy but there’s still time for tender thoughts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter. We're getting there.  
> Thanks to everyone who reads, enjoys, leaves kudos and comments.

= - = - =  
  
Dwalin slammed his tankard down and scowled at its now visible bottom. He had emptied several tankards already and wouldn’t mind several more but he was at an age where he knew only too well that anger and ale didn’t mix.

Glóin next to him apparently didn’t have any concerns regarding anger and ale and belched loudly before taking a big swig of his newly filled tankard. “That Rukhs’utn!” he slurred after he slammed it down so hard the table creaked, “To suggest any dwarf could dishonour their marriage vows, that _I_ could dishonour my yasthûna.” He drank again, cursing when he half missed his mouth in his anger and poured most of the ale into his beard.

“Curse that kakhuf inbarathrag for suggesting any of us would betray another’s honour in that manner,” Bofur agreed, frowning grimly, his face quite contrary to his usual jovial manner.

Dwalin couldn’t help agreeing wholeheartedly. Apart from the fact that he had no doubt his Adad, may Mahal bless old Fundin, would find a way to escape Itdendûm to personally flog the living daylights out of his youngest son if he so much looked as if he was thinking of dishonouring another, dwarf or dam, let alone doing it, Dwalin knew he did not have that in him, even hardened by war and strife as he was. His crudeness was reserved solely for orcs and enemies that could be defeated with a weapon. And no dam, even the one’s skilled in Warcraft, could scold him to be undue forceful towards them. And wordfights were his brother’s domain.

Wordfights like what Nathi had tried to induce in his defence during the hearing.

 _Mahal give me strength_. Dwalin wiped a hand over his face. To suggest it was all a conspiracy by Thorin’s command! How deluded was this dwarf?

“He should be given a good shakedown,” Glóin mumbled darkly, as if reading his thoughts.

“Aye,” Thorin said as he took his seat on the bench opposite Dwalin. The King locked eyes with his Guard Captain and friend before taking a long drink from the tankard he brought along with him. “If Nori was here I wouldn’t hesitate,” he confessed after setting his tankard down, “But I’ll not give the command now, while my Spymaster is absent.”

Glóin burped, making a grimace.

“Why?” Bofur asked, frowning in confusion, “Not like it would take much.”

Dwalin nodded in agreement. No, it likely didn’t even need drawing blood to get Nathi talking. It had not been difficult to haul the vile dwarf back to his cell after his outburst at the hearing. Dwalin hadn’t been gentle, furious at seeing Miss Oifa’s fearful face, hearing her sob. It had almost made him snap. He knew his strength was no match for Nathi. But if vile words could cause Oifa distress, wouldn’t violence do just the same?

“Indeed,” Thorin smiled softly, looking at him as if he was reading his thoughts, “It would not take much. But Dwalin would have to be the one to do it,” he said, “whatever little force it would take. He is my Guard Captain after all, and holds the command in the dungeons.”

Aye, definitely reading his thoughts. Dwalin looked at his big hands and remained silent.

“And?” Glóin retorted, “Dwalin has upheld the law for the Crown in Ered Luin, enforcing many a Royal sentence. What’s the difference now?”

“The difference now is that Miss Oifa would know it was him,” Thorin said solemnly, “Miss Oifa is a very sweet dam. And she is just beginning to fall for my Guard Captain’s charms,” Thorin grinned when Dwalin scowled at him at the tease. “It won’t do to have her tender feelings cool because she’s unable to digest the truth about certain parts of his duties.”

Dwalin frowned deeply. “I am what I am,” he said heavily, “If I truly was to win her heart there is no way she would not know that side of my duties. Besides, Miss Oifa may be sweet and quiet, but she’s a warrior at heart. And her prayers can move mountains. That much she has proven. And much more.” Dwalin’s words carried much conviction, but his tone of voice softened wistfully with his last sentence. He realized it himself and scowled again when his friends shared telling looks and grins.

Thorin nodded. “True, she has shown great courage,” he admitted seriously. Then he sighed. “I am truly sorry that our plan was not fruitful and that Nathi’s vile turned against her, of all people.” He took a swig from his tankard. “And you are right: if she were to be in your future there’s no withholding the more ... darker ... nature of your duties, rare as they may be now. But that is in the future. I’ll not have your chances with her spoiled by Nathi, of all people.”

Dwalin inclined his head. His life had been one of duty, and it would continue to be one of duty, but he couldn’t deny that it felt good for his family and friends to insist to put _him_ first, and duty second, for once in his life.

“So what do we do now?” Glóin asked, “Nathi cannot sit in a cell indefinitely.”

Thorin ran a hand over his bearded chin. “We are waiting on word from Nori. His last raven reported he was getting into contact with some of his acquaintances in various main trading posts. To find out if lone dams, potentially pregnant dams, have traveled through at some stage during the last few years. It is a long shot, but we have to try. In the meantime,” he spread his hands, “we wait.”

“And that abrâfu shaikmashâz lives on free meals when he should be gnawing rocks with his teeth for punishment?” Glóin barked, outraged.

Dwalin grunted. “His cell is not a luxury accommodation and his meals no kingly fare. Besides, time has a funny way of flying in the dungeons. It takes a strong character to cope with the darkness, the damp and the dead quiet. Nathi is not that. He may cave in yet.”

 

 

= - = - =

 

 

He did not cave in.

Dwalin closed the cover of the peephole into Nathi’s cell and sighed in frustration as he walked away. _Blast that dwarf!_  

A week since the hearing, no word from Nori, and Nathi remained stoic. Apart from pacing for hours at a time in the small confined space he ate his meagre daily meal of dry bread crusts and hard cheese and slept on the raised stone slap that functioned as a bed. He grumbled a lot, mumbling under his breath, but there were no angry outburst, no wailing, no begging, pledging, no attempts to bargain information for better conditions or even release.

Locking the door to Nathi’s corridor behind him Dwalin briefly nodded at the guards stationed there before stomping up the steep stairs and making his way to the umzâr’s azlâdu.

Apart from very intentionally making up for neglecting that part of the mountain for such a long time - a fact that still gnawed at him daily - Dwalin quite enjoyed coming there, seeing the umzâr that not so long ago were a gaunt, tired, dirty and near broken lot well clothed, well fed, rested and smiling - even laughing

The atmosphere was as different from the one they had found on the day after Nathi's arrest as mud bricks were from marble. Not only were the corridors no longer a dark, draughty area, but it felt light, smelled fresh and clean, and even though many umzâr he came across still stopped in their tracks at his sight - and some still avoided his gaze - they didn’t flinch anymore and they looked _well_.

Indeed, all of them had come a long way, especially little Miss Oifa.

Dwalin liked finding a seat in the farthest corner of the umzâr’s hall and observing the crowd over an ale or two. Most umzâr were very young, far younger than Oifa, and many barely of age. Orphaned or otherwise separated from their families, with little knowledge of the world, little education and no crafts to call their own.

Most had not had an easy life. There were many sad stories, many broken hearts, many dashed hopes, much loneliness. But all of them fluttered like moths around little Miss Oifa as soon as she entered the room, as if she was the light in their darkness.

Aye, she was a sweet thing, always a friendly word, always gentle encouragement, no matter what time of the day, no matter what task she had just finished or was about to begin, without giving lead to laziness or disrespect.

Indeed, all of the umzâr had come a long way, but it did Dwalin’s heart especially good to see her having come such a long way. The quiet confidence she had about her enchanted him. That, and the fact that she was most pleasing on the eyes. Bombur had been right. Her form had filled out since she ate well and regularly; no longer did she look gaunt and near starved. She was curvy in all the right places, although it was clear that she would always be a slip of a thing. Her beautiful hair shone like a perfectly faceted cerussite in the newly installed golden lights and all the dresses Dori made for her complimented her natural tones.

Aye, Dwalin couldn't help but enjoy much - very much - laying eyes on her.

Watching her now as she distributed sweet pastries from a cloth sack onto plates and platters he couldn’t help but think about the embroidery pattern from her mother’s ruined nightgown he had Ori copy on a piece of parchment. He had not decided yet what to do with it. He felt it was too forward to give her gifts at this point in time. But he couldn’t help picturing her in a new, soft nightgown that hugged her curves, with similar colourful embroidery around her delicate neckline and down her sides, and her long hair spilling over her shoulders.

Clearing his throat and taking a drink he shook himself slightly back into the present.

The small group of umzâr she stood with broke into a cheer and into a traditional song for a name day celebration when Oifa raised her head and found his eyes across the hall. Even from the distance he could see her blush. With so many eyes around he didn’t want to embarrass her by greeting her with a full smile, but he made sure to fill his eyes with fondness - which wasn’t hard - and have the corners of his eyes crinkle. She looked like in trance for a moment, but then the song was finished and spontaneous applause brought her attention back to the table.

Oifa and the other umzâr may have felt powerless to stand up against Nathi for years, but Dwalin knew only too well how much bone deep exhaustion and despair could suck all fight out of even the strongest heart. But in the end the Khazâd were Mahal’s creation, and the Maker had made his children to endure. Dwalin had meant what he said to Thorin: in her own way Oifa was a warrior at heart.

She had recovered quickly after the hearing, as frightened and shaken as Nathi’s outburst had left her initially. Even so, Dwalin had not liked seeing her distressed, not at all. In fact a red hot streak of protectiveness had reared its head at that moment, the likes he had never felt before in his life. The very intensity of it nearly knocked all the breath out of him at the time.

Still, he was grateful Thorin did not give the order to use harsher methods to question Nathi. It was true, Oifa had looked at Dwalin differently a number of times, when she seemed to forget where she was while she looked at him, as she had just now. And if he was close her gaze roamed his face and kept darting between his eyes and his mouth. It did funny things to his insides when she looked at his mouth, and funnier things still when she held his gaze. If she was falling in a trance looking at him he barely fared better; her beautiful eyes slowing time down, making him forget all he wanted to say. The urge to run his hands through her hair became nearly unbearable at times and it took all his willpower to keep his body calm and relaxed and not clench his fists in an effort to hold his hands at his side.

Apart from these lapses in concentration when she was around Dwalin her confidence slowly grew, equal to her knowledge and her responsibilities. Fárni sung her praises daily; it was very clear that Dís’ trust in her had not only _not_ been misplaced, but that the young dam vastly exceeded expectations.

The dam who’s only wish was to have hot water to wash her face had morphed into a dam who slowly but surely had ceased to slide along the side of the corridors but walked with her head held high; the dam that had tried desperately to be invisible, not ever looking up and meeting anyone's eyes now sat in committee meetings, taking any leftover pastries and pies that were there to sustain the participants of those meetings during their discussions back with her to the umzâr’s azlâdu, sharing them around in their hall as a special treat.

Thorin had been gobsmacked - something that didn’t happen often - to find Oifa knocking on his door one evening and asking permission to personally see to his room, and all others on the Royal Floor. He granted it and - even if none of the rooms ever truly had been a mess, umzâr saw to that daily - they now were pristine.

Thorin also wasn’t required to personally attend any meetings that discussed incoming dignitaries and esteemed guests. He did now though, with a sly grin into Dwalin’s direction, who had no choice but follow his King and stand behind him during those meetings, thoroughly distracted by Oifa who sat farther down the table, diverting her attention between following the discussions, taking notes and trying in vain to keep her eyes from darting to _him_.

Every time he caught her eye she blushed, and Mahal did that blush do funny things to his toes, who seemed to curl up in his heavy boots.

Dís called him a sap. Balin just chuckled and gave him a knowing look every time Miss Oifa's name or anything to do with the umzâr came up in any conversation. Dwalin couldn’t help but perk up instantly, to the continued amusement and teasing of his family and closest friends.

 _Send me someone, anyone to smile at me_ , she had said in her prayer to their Maker.

Dwalin made damn sure he did exactly that.

Giving her his smiles. For now, they were the best gift he could possibly be giving her.

Most would probably say - and he would judge them right - that he was not the smiling type. But looking at little Miss Oifa he couldn't help it.

His heart swelled and the corners of his mouth curled up.

 

= - = - =

 

 

The chairs around the table emptied and the council room began to clear.

Another meeting over. It had been a mere couple of days after the Hearing that Fárni took you to some committee meetings where the upcoming stay of a delegation from the Orocarni was discussed. The mountain was getting ready to cater for those high born and influential visitors and the umzâr were busy preparing the rooms in the guest’s quarters and organizing everything for the many trade negotiations, state dinners and evening balls. Fárni had stayed with you the first few times, then she had sent you on your own, leaving you in a ball of nerves at first, but after a couple of times you found your feet.

While the King’s presence was not required for most of those meetings, he did join sometimes, which put everyone immediately on their best behaviour; the King Under the Mountain didn’t have the luxury to spend his time idle, after all - you knew well how busy he was, having seen him working ridiculous hours in his private study while you saw to rights in the Royal Wing - and if he chose to grace mere committee meetings with his presence it was an honour. Even though you normally had no trouble concentrating on a task, you found it harder when the King was present. Because when the King was present, _Dwalin_ was there, too. And the tall dwarf’s presence was a distraction, whether he was on the other side of the room or not. The pull of his grey eyes made you miss half of the things that were being said as you were busy getting lost in them.

Shaking yourself slightly you tried to even out your breath that you hadn’t even realized you were holding.

With a sigh you nodded to some of the committee members that were in the process of grabbing their notes and headed for the door. The meeting had gone well and was ended much earlier than usual when the King declared that all had been said and left the room.

You gazed around carefully, pretending to be busy with your papers, and when you felt unwatched, you swiftly pulled a large piece of linen from one of your deep pockets, unfolded it and began piling the left-over sweet buns and pastries from the council table onto it.

When you heard boots stomping closer behind you you folded it up and hid the bundle on your lap, doing your best to look inconspicuous.

"You're doing it again," a deep voice said next to you.

Goosebumps prickled up and down your arms and you looked up in the grey eyes of Dwalin, who obviously had not left with his King. You felt caught, but there was no point denying it, this was Dwalin, and he saw _everything_.

Blushing, you lifted the bundle back on the table. You set your chin and met his eyes.

He smiled. "Another treat for your umzâr?" he asked in a tone that indicated he very well knew the truth - he had seen you in the umzâr’s hall after all, and clearly put two and two together - placing his body between you and some lingering dwarrow and pushed another silver platter with pastries closer, giving you a pointed look.

"Yes," you said, quickly swiping the whole content of the platter into your bundle, tying it up at the top. "There's a few name days coming up and there's always too much food here. It seems such a waste," you mumbled shyly.

His lips curled into an even wider smile. "The leftovers go to the guards," he mentioned casually.

You grimaced, feeling bad.

Chuckling, he pulled back your chair. You got to your feet and looked up at him.

“It makes them feel special,” you say with a sudden need to explain, “Even though we are fed well and if I’d ask I know Lord Bombur would have sweet buns delivered in a trice. Ovdari writes it’s not cheese that best catches rodents but sugar, and that the same approach should be used to foster comradeship and unity amongst the umzâr. And I know that King Dain handfeeds his war goats with fruit to mellow them. I am using the same approach to make the umzâr feel special. It is only logic. I did not mean any harm taking what I thought was left over after the meetings, and we don’t have other means to celebrate a name day.” You faltered a little, feeling like you should say more, apologize _better_ , but you got rather lost in his grey eyes once more.

"Don't worry, Miss Oifa," Dwalin assured you softly with a smile, showing his dimple, "There is nothing wrong with your approach. In fact it is a good idea. And it goes without saying: your secret's safe with me." He _winked_ and strolled away slowly, giving you a chance to stay in his shadow until you were safely out the door.

Looking back over your shoulder you caught his eye. He winked again at you.

Blushing, you ducked your head and sped off, soon joined by two of Jarspur’s guards.

You rushed down the corridors and across the walkways in a brisk pace, trying to calm your rapidly beating heart, only slowing slightly on your way down the stairs to the umzâr’s azlâdu. The first time you came up the steep stairs it had left you panting and with dizzy spells from your weakness, but now, weeks after living with regular and wholesome meals, as well as sleeping more than you had in years it was no problem racing up or down several times in a day, a fact for which you were grateful.

You nodded to the guards at the mouth of the corridor, and to Jarspur who waited for you outside the office, taking over for the two guards that had accompanied you upstairs for the meeting.

“Lady Fárni has been joined by her husband for lunch,” Jarspur told you, “They are in the umzâr’s hall. Lady Fárni told me to ask you to join them once you’re back.”

You nodded shyly. “Thank you, Jarspur. I might just do that.” Swiftly stepping inside the office and depositing your notes and the bag of pastries on your desk you made your way to the  hall.

A number of umzâr in work clothes greeted you on the way. Yes, a lot had changed. Apart from the obvious changes proper food, the ability to wash after work and clean clothes brought on, those changes also lifted the overall mood.

There was laughter in the corridors now and in the hall. When you entered you were greeted by many, taking your time to stop for a few words with everyone who addressed you, before making your way to where Lady Fárni and Lord Glóin sat together and took their meal. You knew now that Glóin was not only a Lord Companion and the Royal Treasurer, but also a distant cousin to the King. At the beginning it had been highly unnerving, to say the least, to be in the presence of such an important dwarf, but you had come to enjoy his presence and the totally normal way he carried himself. In fact, in the way he and Fárni treated each other they reminded you of your parents. Despite the difficulties that came with your Adad’s burns, your home had been a happy one. You did not have much in terms of monetary matters, but you had each other, a lot of laughter and a lot of love. Being reminded of a happy family life while sitting with Fárni and Glóin did your soul good, even if was just for precious short moments at shared lunches.

You knew well that for yourself such a joy would very likely not come to pass. No dwarf would ever be interested in a dam that worked as umzâr, with no skills to show and no Mastery beads to add to her braids. You had long made peace with that thought.

Fárni already had a bowl of stew and a mug ready for you when you sat down. The dam mothered you, and well did you know it. But you did not mind it, it was a balm to your soul to have someone feel the need to care for you in such a manner.

A commotion announced Bofur, who seemed to have made it a habit of coming by the umzâr’s hall most days of the week. The path of the joyful dwarf towards your table was as always accompanied by the laughter of the umzâr he passed. A few of Jarspur’s guards also came into the hall and joined a table, enjoying an ale and a meal at the end of their shifts. 

You smiled, tapping the old hurt of loneliness deep down, and began eating. You loved it, this mingling of dwarrow, the easy conversations and the laughter. There was no point dwelling on personal matters.

With the morning shifts ending and the afternoon shifts about to begin more and more umzâr entered the hall for their midday meal.

Focusing on the conversation at your table you couldn’t stop your eyes darting to the door, glancing briefly over the newcomers.

“Bombur’s wife has been complaining that she’s forgetting her husband’s face. My brother’s barely been home these past few days. And it’s likely not getting better these coming weeks. That delegation from the Orocarni keeps everyone busy,” Bofur said suddenly, looking at you with a grin and a strange expression you couldn’t possibly figure out.

“Quite,” Glóin grunted, “Balin is drowning in paperwork even more than usually, preparing all the trade contracts an agreements. And Dwalin is a right grump at the moment with the added rosters and the heightened security in the mountain. Hope he gets a bit of rest before the delegation actually arrives. As we know he won’t take his eyes of the King while they are here.”

“Busy times,” Bofur chimed in in agreement, “Good we’re used to Dwalin’s grump,” he added cheerfully.

You frowned, not quite liking that comment. “I saw Lord Dwalin just before at the meeting. He didn’t seem grumpy to me,” you protested quietly.

“The King joined the meeting again?” Fárni asked, smiling lightly, while she pushed some bread towards you.

You nodded. “Things are very efficient with him present,” you stated respectfully.

“So efficient that Dwalin even found the time to speak to you?” Bofur teased.

Remembering that Dwalin caught you bagging the pastries and actually actively assisting you to take some more you blushed. “Briefly,” you mumbled and pretended to focus on scraping out your bowl, “He is very busy.”

Fárni hummed and Glóin cleared his throat and began telling a random story of Dwalin’s life in the Blue Mountains.

Your eyes darted to the door once more while listening intently. Yes, Dwalin was busy. But he also had the uncanny ability to show up when he was least expected. Like today, in the council room, when you thought he had long left with the King. He also came to the umzâr’s azlâdu a lot, you knew, always wearing his twin axes and his scowl, prowling the corridors or sitting quietly at a bench in the hall, sipping on his ale, observing everyone and everything around him with his sharp eyes.

You had come to the conclusion that there was very little those eyes didn't see, as the whole affair with the pastries proved. _Your secret’s safe with me._ Blushing again at the memory you couldn’t help but feel a little annoyed that Bofur would criticize the Guard Captain. Dwalin may not be of a jovial nature like Bofur, and yes, his scowl and whole demeanour could come across as intimidating, but to you he had ever been very polite, gentle even, and in his approach of few words you rather found him pleasant to be around.

A shame in a way, you thought, that he didn’t normally speak as much as he did on the day he told you about his youthful escapades and Ovdari - as you quite liked his deep, warm voice, and the assured way he carried himself. He made you in a strange way feel both visible and safe.

 

= - = - =

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khuzdul thanks to the Dwarrow Scholar - and my own wranglings  
> umzâr: workers  
> umzâr’deshnâr: supreme workers  
> umzâr’idshân: lesser workers  
> Khazâd: Dwarrow  
> azlâdu: dominion  
> Rukhs’utn – orc man/half orc, shorter in statue, vile, mean  
> Yasthûna - wife  
> kakhuf inbarathrag – goat turd  
> Itdendûm – The Halls of Waiting  
> Abrâfu shaikmashâz - (You) descendant of rats


	11. Proof that Food Mellows Minds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... even if the result is not always a joyful one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has an explicit warning for mention of violence and murder.

= - = - =

 

As soon as Miss Oifa disappeared around the corner after the latest committee meeting Dwalin stroked his beard and tried in vain to wipe the smile off his face.

_Mahal, she was adorable._

Bagging the pastries. The look on her face when he caught her in the act!

He sure was glad Thorin had joined the meeting, even though he _knew_ bloody well his King only did that because Oifa was there. So he, Dwalin, could see her. Blasted family kept meddling.

Just a few nights ago Dori had described at length every fabric and stitch of embroidery he was planning for Oifa’s dresses for the new season. So today during the damned meeting Dwalin couldn’t think of anything else but those new dresses on his little dam.

His little dam.

He closed his eyes for a moment. Aye, he thought of her that way. He wanted her in his life in that way. When she dropped her guard and spoke her mind just before Dwalin was ready to fall to his knees and beg her to allow him to court her, so that he could listen to her all day.

 _Sugar to catch rodents_. He shook his head, amused at the analogy. He could well imagine Ovdari writing advice like that in that book of his. And aye, he could well imagine Dain handfeeding the wargoats with fruit to keep them mellow. The Ironfoot was well known for his fondness of the beasts.

And thanks to his acquaintance and friendship with a certain hobbit, Dwalin had well learned about the magic a shared meal or a well-placed sweet cake could bring.

Turning to continue with his duties Dwalin’s steps slowed as an idea suddenly struck him.

 

 

= - = - =

 

 

He opened the door to Nathi’s cell.

“Out you come,” he ordered sternly.

He directed the dwarf along several corridors to a generous cell, complete with a soft bed, a separate washroom, a desk filled with books and writing utensils, and a table, which now was laden with food. Roast pork, baked potatoes, sweet wine, crusty pastries filled with meat mince, sweet buns with raisins, fruit.

Nathi stared, squinting in the dim light of several candles. “What’s all this?” he asked, his voice rough from not having spoken out loud for many days.

Dwalin folded his arms over his chest and took his time looking him up and down. The former Izrikruk of the umzâr’s azlâdu had lost a lot of weight; his clothes hung off him and even the second belt did little to hold things together. His hair was in need of a wash, even if he obviously had made attempts to keep his braids neat. The lack of light left his eyes red and sore and he was blinking rapidly, trying to adjust and soothe the burning the sudden exposure to the candles gave him.

Dwalin made himself grunt indifferently and poured wine into a goblet. “The King is tired of having you in his mountain. He has decreed that come morning you will be shaved and shorn and made to leave Erebor in disgrace. You can have a wash and a sleep in a soft bed. And this,” Dwalin indicated at the lavish food laid out and handed the goblet to Nathi, “is your final meal in the Kingdom Under the Mountain.”

Nathi straightened himself abruptly. “You cannot be serious,” he rasped indignantly, but he did take the goblet, drinking greedily.

Dwalin simply raised an eyebrow. “Well should you make the most of it,” he said, dipping his chin towards the goblet in the dwarf’s hand, “Come morning your time in Erebor is up.”

“What have I done to deserve to be shaved and shorn?” the dwarf rasped and picked a raisin from one of the sweet buns.

Dwalin wanted to list it all, accompanied by a heavy fist in the dwarf’s face for each and every misgiving, but he just shrugged lightly and managed a bored sigh. “The council feels the King and his closest advisors are spending too much time on the umzâr,” he explained lazily. “Which is true. A delegation from the Orocarni is due to arrive soon and the King needs to focus his attention on more important matters. Matters that mean more to the mountain than if a bunch of lowly workers are _happy_.”

Nathi snorted. “Is that what they are after now?” he muttered and shook his head in disgust. “Happiness?” He nearly spat the word before greedily lifting a pastry to his mouth and taking a large bite.

Barely able to believe it would be so easy to trick this idiot and silently cursing himself for not having come up with this idea sooner, Dwalin forced his face into an equally disgusted scowl and nodded. “Aye. Many of us have spent most of our past weeks to clean up the mess you left, Nathi, neglecting our other duties - which has won you no friends. But it seems it’s not enough for the umzâr to be clothed, washed and fed. Now they ask for days off, and some even ask for wages.”

With a grunt Nathi made his disgust known. He swiftly ate the rest of the pie. “Filth! I have done well whipping them into shape, unskilled bunch that they are, keeping their indelicacies away from the more worthy dwarrow,” Nathi breathed deeply and greedily took another large gulp from his wine. “With no help, mind you. Nobody ever cared how the azlâdu was run, as long as the mountain was kept clean, the silver polished, the visitor’s beds made and their clothes washed.” Nathi ran his hands down his crumpled silk doublet to wipe away the pastry crumbs, flicking them carelessly on the floor. “I should be commended for the work I have done for years, not punished like a common criminal!”

Dwalin growled and lifted a heavy finger, pointing it at the dwarf, his patience hanging by a thread. “Don’t forget, Nathi, how I found you in your office. I cannot unsee the predicament you got yourself in. And you stole from the mountain. The King cannot possibly overlook that.”

Nathi didn’t reply. He put down his goblet and cut some crackling off the roast pork and ate it with gusto, licking his fingers after he crunched the savoury bite down with a look of bliss on his face. He washed it down with some more wine, and refilled his goblet.

Nathi didn’t choke as Dwalin was fervently wishing, so Dwalin held his breath and imagined how he could break every single bone in Nathi’s body in an effort to try to distract himself. Not before folding his arms and leaning against the wall, forcing his face into an utterly bored expression.

“You confiscated all my belongings,” Nathi grumbled in response, “And it’s not as if I committed treason.”

Scoffing, Dwalin tilted his head. “You accused the King of conspiring against you. Before witnesses! An unwise move, Nathi, very unwise. How could he possibly ignore that without losing face?”

Nathi seated himself at the table and began filling his plate with food. Spooning some of the baked potatoes into his mouth he kept himself busy with chewing. Eventually he swallowed and paused for a moment, the fork with a large bite of meat halfway to his mouth. “The Gatekeeper did wrong, too, yet he got to leave with his honour intact,” Nathi debated, “I have given more to the mountain than he ever has. Why are my sacrifices not being honoured?”

Dwalin unfolded his arms and let them hang loosely at his side. “The Gatekeeper gave us information, Nathi. You have given us nothing but work,” he said, keeping his voice passive, following up the charade with a dismissive hand gesture.

Nathi was silent for a long time.

Dwalin waited with baited breath.

“What if I give you something?”

“Speak plainly, Nathi,” Dwalin growled. _Better not tell me where you stole that mirror from because it’s the last thing I care about._

Nathi took his time to chew another mouthful of pork, the meaty juices running down his chin. Then he looked directly at Dwalin. “Aren’t you missing some dams?”

 

 

= - = - =

 

 

When Dwalin left the room he forced himself to close the door calmly before locking it. He turned and waited for Thorin, Dis and Balin to exit a small room next to the comfortable cell Nathi was in now. They looked at each other grimly. Dwalin met the dark and angry eyes of his King. “Get Bofur, we need his help.”

 

 

= - = - =

 

 

Dwalin hauled the miner up from the crumbling edges of the abandoned mineshaft, harness and all.

Bofur was breathing harshly, his eyes were haunted and his face grey.

“You found it?” Dwalin asked, clasping his shoulders to steady him as he swayed on the spot.

“Aye,” Bofur nodded. “Aye, I found it.” Then he turned to the side and emptied the contents of his stomach on the stone floor.

 

 

= - = - =

 

 

It took the best part of the night to retrieve the remains they found exactly where Nathi had described they would be. Only Dwalin, Thorin and Bofur entered the small utility chamber in the abandoned slope shaft, but Dwalin had insisted on calling Jarspur, and when Bofur went to get Bifur to help, Dori had been with the old warrior, who, after one look at Bofur’s distraught face, had insisted on coming. Jarspur, Bifur and Dori secured and held the ropes, the winches and baskets not fit to be used any longer. All three offered to abseil in Thorin’s stead, but the King had refused. Dwalin knew he blamed himself greatly. Three dams and their pebbles murdered in his mountain.

It was not a good day. 

When they had carefully placed the dead bodies into temporary stone coffins and carried them to the crypts their heavy feet carried them to the King’s private study. Dis and Balin were waiting for them.

Thorin gratefully accepted a hug from his sister, her mouth pressed into a thin line. He held her forehead to his for a moment before he sat down with a heavy sigh.

Dwalin fell on a chair next to him, feeling an exhausting mix of fury, anger, helplessness and terrible sadness. Balin lay a comforting hand on his shoulder, for once lost for words. Bofur slumped down in his seat and let his head hang. The cheerful miner had regained some colour in his face, but his eyes were haunted and there was not even the smallest hint of a smile. Bifur pulled a chair next to his cousin and sat as close to him as possible. Jarspur remained standing, his face full of anger. Dori paced, visibly too upset to settle down.

When the heavy silence in the room became almost unbearable, Dis stood behind her brother and rubbed his shoulders. “This seals Nathi’s fate,” she stated, her voice hoarse.

Thorin nodded and turned to his Royal Advisor. “Assemble the council,” he ordered with a rasp, his eyes hard, “I want him dead by morning.”

 

 

= - = - =

 

 

It was almost midday when Dwalin rapped his knuckles against the doorframe briefly before stepping into the room.

"Dwalin," Fárni greeted him from her seat behind the desk.

Dwalin stepped inside and quietly closed the door behind him.

Oifa leapt up from her chair and dropped him a curtsy. "Lord Dwalin," she said, blushing slightly, trying to hide a ... what ... candlestick? ... under a cloth. Was she polishing silver?

Remembering her prayer he suppressed a grin. Then he made sure to hold her eyes and smile at her, which was - as ever - surprisingly easy. She did look delightful in a gold brocaded dark blue velvet dress with a beautiful lace apron. The bodice was tied with fine gold wire at the front and the white, long-sleeved blouse was held up at the elbows with white silk ribbons. As usual, her hair was braided with great care, the long pleats keeping the curls out of her face held together with a wide blue ribbon at the back of her head.

"Miss Oifa," he replied, giving her a respectful bow that made her blush and stare at him.

Glancing over at Fárni, the dam gave him an amused look, raising her eyebrows in question.

"What brings you here, Dwalin?" she asked.

Remembering why he had come he sobered immediately.

"Fárni, Miss Oifa," he contemplated if there was any way to soften the blow, but - in his experience - there was none, "I bring news," he said gravelly, "News regarding Vira."

"Oh," Oifa's face lit up with joy, only to fall when he remained silent and she searched his face, reading the truth somewhere in his features. She paled and shook her head. "No," she whispered.

Shooting a beseeching look at Fárni, Dwalin stepped over to the side table and poured some sweet wine in a goblet.

When he turned back around Fárni had moved Oifa into a chair by the fireplace. She took the goblet from Dwalin and thrust it into Oifa's hand.

"Have a sip, Mahdith," she ordered firmly, "And then let's hear all Dwalin has to say."

Oifa obeyed, shuddering when she swallowed a mouthful of the wine.

Fárni moved a chair opposite Oifa and motioned Dwalin to sit in it. For herself she pulled a chair next to the pale dam.

Oifa's eyes flickered up to Dwalin's, but she dropped her gaze immediately again, looking to the ground - as if not looking at him would make the truth easier to hear.

Dwalin sighed. "Up until today Nathi ... in his delusions ... was under the impression he would be released and reinstated into his position with no more than a slap on the wrist - in consideration for his services over the past years. It was made clear to him that that would never be the case. Erebor is no place for the likes of him. Yesterday afternoon I told Nathi that the King ordered him shorn and shaved and expelled from the mountain. In disgrace ... but alive. That verdict was to be carried out this morning." Dwalin hesitated for a moment but then reached out and carefully put his hand over Oifa's, which was clenched into her skirts and ice cold. "It was a ruse, of course, a means to trick him into talking. And it worked. After hearing that verdict, Nathi ... again, in his delusions ... compared his own fate with that of the Gatekeeper, who was allowed to keep his hair and beard. I reminded him that the Gatekeeper gave us his full cooperation, gave us information, and that was why he was allowed to keep his hair and beard even if he got evicted from Erebor. Nathi came to the conclusion that if he was giving us information as well, he would receive mercy."

Fárni frowned deeply and put an arm around Oifa's shoulders.

Exchanging a look with his cousin's wife, Dwalin continued. "He confirmed that Vira ... was with pebble. His pebble." Oifa visibly tensed when he used Past Tense. "Nathi has kept her confined to a utility chamber deep in an abandoned slope shaft," he said lowly, "That slope shaft is in a part of the mountain that has long been abandoned as the rock is unstable and no sufficient finds were made to make it worthwhile stabilizing the area. Auxiliary shafts have collapsed and a cave-in at the mouth of the tunnel has blocked the passage. The available winches and baskets are unusable. Unfortunately," he squeezed Oifa's ice cold hand gently, “the available oxygen supply was not enough to sustain a person for any extended period of time. Vira," he looked at Fárni who stared at him, horrorstruck, "died of suffocation. We retrieved her body not long ago."

Oifa's eyes shut and she shuddered. "What about the pebble?" she asked in a whisper.

Not taking his eyes off her, Dwalin replied slowly, "She was ... quite far along ... Óin thinks she was probably nearing her third trimester, judging by her size. The pebble died with his Amad. They are with Mahal now, who will give them all the love they did not receive in this life."

Oifa's beautiful eyes filled with tears.

Dwalin fought hard against the compulsion to pull her into his arms and wipe those tears away. He forced himself to look from her stricken face to her small, cold hand in his. "Unfortunately," he said, shaking his head, "That is not all."

Fárni took in a shuddering breath, steeling herself. He held her gaze when he said "We found two other bodies in the same chamber. Both dams. Both with pebbles. They ... have been there for a long while."

Fárni stared at him in horror, immediately understanding the agony and despair that had occurred in that chamber. “Bretta and Merethe?” she asked.

“I’m afraid so,” Dwalin confirmed heavily.

Oifa sobbed. Instantly, Dwalin's eyes went back to her. "Both dams died in that chamber. One could argue that Nathi may have not known Vira might not have enough oxygen to survive; he is no miner. But Bretta and Merethe were locked away to die. They both starved, and their pebbles with them. I am certain that Nathi intended the same fate for Vira. Therefore, his destiny is now clear. Nathi will be executed for murder. Tomorrow at sunrise. Before the whole mountain."

Fárni stared at him, eyebrows raised as if asking a question.

"The King has taken it upon himself to deliver justice," Dwalin said, understanding immediately, "But the council has overruled him. A full nutut’udmas will take place. Dís will stand for the dams, Gloin for the husbands, Jarspur for the unwed dwarrow and Gimli for the pebbles. And I will stand for the umzar," he declared solemnly.

Fárni nodded grimly, her features set. Then she looked at Oifa. The poor dam looked distraught and terribly upset. She clenched the goblet in her shaking hand. Suddenly she ripped her other hand out from under Dwalin's and pressed it over her mouth, choking on a heart wrenching sob.

"Here, lass," Fárni insisted, "Drink it now, that's it." And she urged the goblet with sweet wine to Oifa's lips and had her down the whole lot. Oifa coughed, got to her feet and leaned against the mantle, staring into the flames, unseeing, her face wet with tears.

"I am so sorry," Dwalin said softly, rising as well.

She shook her head. "Thank ... thank you, for taking the time and informing us," she said hoarsely, her voice shaking, "Please, please, tell me," she turned around and looked at him imploringly, "What about Vira? Vira and her pebble, and ... all of them? What can I do to help? There has to be something I can do, please!"

 _Sweet soul_. Dwalin stepped closer to her. He looked down at her face, where tears were running from her beautiful eyes down her smooth cheeks.

He carefully restrained himself from touching her. From pulling her shaking form into his chest. From kissing those tears away. Very softly, he said "Vira and the other dams will be put to stone in a special ceremony in the crypts. Dis has insisted on being their amradshomak. I’m sure she’d very much welcome you to help with the ceremony, if that is your wish."

His heart almost melted when she nodded eagerly; some lose hairs flying around her face. 

"Very well," he said and straightened.

He exchanged a last look with Fárni, clasping her shoulder for a moment, before leaving the room.

 

 

 

 

= - = - =

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always all Khuzdul is thanks to the Dwarrow Scholar and my own humble word wranglings.  
> Mahdith - Blessing that is young  
> nutut'udmas - from nutut: final(last) and 'udmas: greatest law(judgment/doom) - a good word for an execution  
> amdradshomak - Guard of the Dead: a guard that not only guards the dead until the funeral but cares for the dead, their families, and prepares for burial and feast
> 
> Cuptivate is on Pinterest, if you love visuals for your reading. This story has its own board.


	12. Nathi’s End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The title says it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explicit chapter. Warning for violence, blood, gore, execution. Nathi gets what he deserves and it won’t be pretty. If you don’t like reading about these kinds of things, do not read this chapter. Just skip to the next one, you won’t miss out on the plot of the story. The next chapter will be up on the weekend.

= - = - =

 

Trumpets at the early morning bell had announced the commencement of nutut’udmas. The only one since the reclaiming of Erebor so far, and one of only a handful in the centuries from before Smaug. Unlike with Men, murder was uncommon amongst their race; most Khazâd died in battle or returned to stone at old age. Appropriate for a people where a good two thirds of the populace were rather deft with wielding a weapon. If that heinous crime was committed, however, it was sure to unsettle dwarrow from all stages of life.  
Therefore, once the sound of the second bell faded every corridor and walkway along or in visible distance from the path from the dungeons was filled to the brim with dwarrow wanting to witness Nathi’s demise.  
Murderers generally did not receive the courtesy of being executed beneath stone, therefore the abalut’ushraf had been erected just outside the mountain, just outside the Great Gate, a little to the left and off the road to Dale.  
For murderers of dams ... well, execution was too mild, in Dwalin's opinion. But murderers of pebbles should have their skin peeled off them, have every bone in their body broken before being fed their own entrails. And that would still be too mild.  
Dwalin saw Oifa briefly, when he brought Nathi out from the dungeons. She stood just outside the Great Gate, with Fárni, and both were surrounded by the Company; Bofur had an arm around her shoulder, giving her his support. The dam looked pale and had dark shadows under her eyes - but she was there. Dwalin would not have thought ill of her if she had chosen not to be a witness, but he couldn't deny that he was pleased she had found it in herself to attend. He was well used to delivering punishment, and he would certainly not hesitate assisting in delivering this particular judgment, but he understood well that sweet Oifa had not seen anywhere near the amount of blood and gore that he had in his lifetime - and as Thorin had said: there was nothing wrong with that, on the contrary: it made him feel even more protective of her, somehow.  
Nathi had already proven beyond doubt that he had no shred of decency or honour, but this day he had also shown that he had no composure, not the tiniest bit of Khazâd pride. Ever since Dwalin had barged into his comfortable cell, all but hauling the freshly washed and half naked dwarf off his bed and pushing him to his knees while Balin delivered the verdict, witnessed by several senior members of the Royal Council, the dwarf had not been quiet. Upon realizing that Dwalin had tricked him he sprouted nothing but curses, badmouthing Dwalin, his Sire, his Amad, the line of Durin, Dis, the umzâr, Oifa, and all dams in Arda. Only Dwalin’s iron will had saved his life then, but Dwalin’s jaw hurt from grinding his teeth. Next Nathi refused to get himself dressed, so Dwalin held him down while two guards forced him into pants and a tunic. The dwarf screamed and wailed and screeched while Dwalin shaved off his braids and beard - and he hadn’t paused making a racket since.  
Leaving the dungeon Dwalin had to drag him along when Nathi chose to collapse and refused to walk on his own. As per tradition, a sentenced dwarf was neither bound nor gagged; there was no way Nathi could have gotten away from Dwalin's steely grip, so the not-binding didn't matter. But the not-gagging was tearing on Dwalin's nerves before they even made it up to the surface.  
Faced with a mountain full of spectators for his execution, Nathi turned even viler, cursing all and sunder and the foundations of Erebor until foam clung to his lips.  
When they finally made it to the abalut’ushraf, Dwalin swiftly bound Nathi’s body and legs tightly to the solitary wooden post that was to be the abalut’ushraf, and his wrists together in front of him.  
The Royal Council was assembled in a wide circle. Dwalin briefly made eye contact with his brother; Balin was not a dwarf to relish in physical punishment, but the eldest son of Fundin was a warrior of renown in his own right, and even though he had always preferred words over his mace for once his twinkling eyes were hard. When Balin had called the Royal Council to assemble and revealed Nathi’s foul deeds the room had erupted in fury. But once Thorin had stepped forward and claimed the right to end Nathi’s life the many times rather divided Council was surprisingly unified: the King was denied and the Council demanded a nutut’udmas, which meant Nathi would be punished not only by the King’s hand but also by those who would stand as rathkhu nussu. It was a matter of moments for himself, Dís, Glóin, Jarspur and young Gimli to step up and request the honour to stand for the victims and all they represented. Dwalin had left the council room immediately after to bring the grim news to Fárni and Oifa, before word spread through the mountain, even though he had refrained from telling them any gruesome details of the murders. Nobody outside the Royal Council knew the full truth of what they had found in that utility chamber of the abandoned mining shaft. Like that one pebble had been born, still attached to his Amad by the cord, but both must have died shortly after. Like Vira having no fingernails from trying to dig herself out from that cursed chamber with her bare hands. There was no need for the populace of the mountain to know these things. There was no need for Oifa to know these things.  
Nathi’s hoarse screeching brought Dwalin back to the present and he took his place among the rathkhu nussu on either side of the disgraced dwarf.  
Dís , Glóin and Jarspur’s faces were set, so was Gimli’s. Dwalin’s heart ached for the young warrior and he was glad Gimli had already seen some battle during his patrols for the Kingdom. It would be a bitter experience to wet his blade with first blood during an execution, of all things. But the young dwarf had been adamant to step up as rathkhu nussu and stand for the dead pebbles.  
Thorin, dressed in plain clothes, as were all of them - no need to honour a murderer with ornate clothing - strode forward and intoned, his booming voice carrying far. "Nameless dwarf, formerly known as Nathi, son of Pothi, your end of this life and all others has come. You have been found guilty for murdering three dams and their pebbles. On top of those most gruesome deeds, bintarg shekar, you have shown no regret, no remorse, no shame for your actions, nothing that would in any way speak in your defense. A’lâju Mahal!"  
The assembled dwarrow as one echoed the King’s cry.  
During Thorin’s words, Nathi's wails and screams became louder and louder, his voice toppling over itself, spittle flying from his mouth. Sharing a dark look with both Dís and Glóin , who stood on the other side of the wooden post, mirroring his expression, Dwalin squared his shoulders and lifted his axe.  
Stepping forward, he boomed "As one who has a duty to keep others safe I speak for the umzâr. The dams were in your care, vile dwarf, working in your azlâdu, and you failed them. I will take your hands." And he grabbed Nathi's bound hands in an iron grip, pulling harshly at the rope until the dwarf’s arms were straight, and hew them right off at the wrists in one massive strike.  
Blood squirted from the stumps and Nathi squealed like a pig.  
Gimli stepped up, eyes hard, raising a gleaming knife. "As a son who is cherished I speak for the pebbles, whose lives you ended before they even had a chance to draw breath, who never had a chance to have their voices heard. As punishment for that I take your ears," and he cut off Nathi's ears in two swift motions, blood trickling down the sides of the dwarf’s head, soaking into the collar of his tunic.  
Glóin was next, an ordinary spoon in his hand. “I stand for the husbands,” he growled, vibrating with anger, “We vowed to cherish our dams, and hold them above all. You, filth, dishonour us and our vows by what you have done. I deny you the privilege to gaze upon our wives in these last moments of your life. Your eyes are mine." And he grasped Nathi's head roughly, pushing him against the post hard to hold him steady, and pried out his eyes with the spoon, the dwarf howling like a beast by now, his bound body writhing in spasms.  
Jarspur’s eyes were hard when it was his turn, his face a snarl. "I speak for the unwed dwarrow, who wish they were blessed to find a dam to hold and to keep and to whisper words of love. Because you have taken that chance away from us, I take your tongue." Dwalin moved behind Nathi to hold his head still while Jarspur pried his mouth open, grabbed his tongue with a set of pliers and cut it off with his knife.  
The disgraced dwarf gurgled and choked, blood bubbling from his lips.  
When Dís stepped up with a wicked looking dagger in her hand, Dwalin used his knife to cut Nathi's pants. "I speak for the dams,” she said, her voice cold, “We deserve to be treated with respect and not pounced upon and to live in fear from predators like you. As your punishment for the assaults and the disrespect you showed for the dam’s bodies I will take your cock." And she reached down and cut off his cock.  
Nathi hung limply at the post, bleeding profusely now, his tunic and pants dripping and the ground around the post soaked with blood. The only sounds coming from him now was a faint moaning.  
His end was near either way. Thorin didn't hesitate any longer. "Dwarf without a name, because you committed murder in my mountain, I will take this life of yours, and thereby end all others." And he lifted Orcrist and beheaded the dwarf with one mighty swing.  
It was silent.  
A dog barked in the distance and the sound of cows could be heard from one of the nearer farms towards Dale.  
The morning sun slowly crept higher in the sky, bathing more and more of the mountain’s surface in warm light, promising a beautiful day.  
The Royal Council stirred and the members slowly made their way back into the mountain, followed by the King and the rathkhu nussu. Once Thorin had disappeared past the Great Gate the crowd also began dispersing.  
Dwalin stayed behind and proceeded to chop the legs off the nameless dwarf’s corpse. The different body parts were shoved into bags and handed to mounted warriors who were standing by to dispatch them into the wilds in a wide perimeter around Erebor.  
This dwarf would never enter the Halls of Mahal.

 

= - = - =

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are too many characters like Nathi in our world – vile swine predators and bullies of the worst kind - and I cannot stand them.  
> I wrote this chapter after binge watching ‘Vikings’ ... So, yeah ...
> 
>  
> 
> nutut’udmas – nutut: final (last) + ‘udmas: greatest law (judgement/doom) = execution  
> abalut’ushraf - abalut: wood (one plank) of + ‘ushraf: greatest punishment = execution place  
> rathkhu nussu - rathkh u: hand of + nussu: deliverance = executioner  
> bintarg shekar – beardless coward  
> A’lâju Mahal! - (You) shame (of) Mahal!


	13. Grief and Regret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mountain mourns and Oifa is selfish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First world problems ... the hours I had hoped to spend editing and writing were wasted on trying to figure out why the last Windows Update fried my computer ... not a happy woman today ...  
> So please forgive any oddities in this new chapter, my brain’s fried and anger makes blind as you might know ;)  
> More tenderness in this chapter, plus a summary of Chapters 11 and 12 for anyone who doesn’t do explicit.

= - = - =

 

Summary for Chapters 11 and 12: Dwalin remembers Oifa’s quote of Ovdari’s diary (sugar to catch rodents) and has the idea to trick Nathi using the same method: the dwarf is released from his solitary confinement and brought to a bigger cell in the dungeons, with a bed, a wetroom and a table laid with scrumptious food and drink. While Nathi cannot resist the meal - after having had next to nothing for weeks - Dwalin informs him that he should enjoy the food, the bath and the solid bed, as they would be his last luxuries in Erebor, before he would be shorn and shaved and exiled. Dwalin plays the ‘the Royal Council is mean’ card, saying that too many of the Company had to be busy fixing Nathi’s wrongdoings, neglecting their other duties because of it, causing the Council to complain. He tells Nathi that the umzâr get on everybody’s nerves as they are not satisfied with being fed, washed and clothes but now also demand wages and free time. Nathi scoffs at that, pointing out how great he did ‘whipping’ the umzâr into shape ever since he took over in his role as the Officer of the Marshal of the Court, all the while stuffing his face with the food from the table. Dwalin has a hard time keeping his temper, but he manages to point out that the King won’t forgive Nathi for publicly accusing him of trying to frame Nathi, that he doesn’t have another option than to exile Nathi without beard and braids. Nathi argues that the Gatekeeper got to keep his hair and braids even though he gave less service to the mountain than he, Nathi, did. Dwalin points out that the Gatekeeper, at least, gave information, whereas Nathi gave nothing but extra work. Nathi concludes that by giving information as the Gatekeeper, he, too, may be exiled but would keep his hair and braids, and he tells Dwalin where the three missing dams can be found. 

With the help of Bofur, Jarspur, Bifur and Dori Thorin and Dwalin manage to retrieve the bodies of the Vira, Bretta and Merethe - and their pebbles - from an abandoned mining shaft.

Dwalin informs Fárni and Oifa; the little dam is devastated.

Nathi is publicly executed outside the mountain the following morning.

 

= - = - =

 

“How is Oifa?” Balin asked softly when the Company gathered for dinner the evening after the nutut’udmas.

“I have asked her to join us tonight,” Fárni announced with a sad smile, “But she declined. She is in the crypt, standing vigil.”

Thorin frowned. “I thought Dís is doing that,” he said.

“She is. But Oifa asked if she could also be there and Dís let her. She has put her solely in charge for the funeral, but they are both present tonight as amradshomak,” Fárni explained.

“I know Oifa considered Vira a friend,” Thorin said with a frown, “But she didn’t even know Bretta and Merethe personally. While it is well within Dís’ duties as Princess of Erebor to do this last service for the three dams and their pebbles, Oifa does not have to see it as her responsibility to participate, let alone be the one to organise the burial ceremony.“

“She does not,” Dwalin agreed with a deep sigh, “But she needs to do it regardless. I believe it is her way of coping with the horror of it all.”

 

 

= - = - =

 

In the end it was good Oifa had been put in charge for organising the funeral, as Dís, Fárni and most of the Company spent much time with the umzâr, drying tears and giving support and comfort. The umzâr showed their youth, equally shocked and full of sorrow with all that had occurred, and many were quite overwhelmed with the whole situation. The azlâdu was much subdued, the sadness almost palpable in the corridors.

At the funeral, five days after the nutut’udmas, the King stood solemnly, his face deeply somber, the full Royal Council around him. Half the mountain also attended, by the looks of it, noble families, miners, merchants, crafters, guards, the lot. The umzâr had been relieved of their work for the day, and huddled together, the Company and their families amongst them, trying to give strength.

Rarely had a funeral been attended this well. And rarely were this many tears shed.

The ceremony was planned with much care; it had just the right amount of tradition without being stuffy.

The congregation assembled at Mahal’s statue in the Hall of Kings, where Balin delivered Peltin’s Lament of the Dead from the Second Age, before they all moved in a slow procession to the crypts, the participants carrying incense sticks, torches and glowing crystals - of the kind many a parent used to light a very young pebble’s room to chase away fears of the dark.

Thorin had ordered a new stone chamber to be built in the crypt, which held the three richly decorated marble caskets. The best stone carvers of Erebor had inscribed both the chamber and the caskets with excerpts of prayers, blessings and well wishes for a better life in Mahal’s Halls. Only a handful of people fit into the stone chamber itself, headed by Thorin, the rest settled all through about the vast halls of the crypt. The crowd stood in silence until the third bell, then the King lead the final oration calling upon the Maker to receive the deceased, asking him to bestow special care untoward them, as they received little of it in this life. Bifur then intoned the traditional Song of Death and Life, which began mournful, slow and solemn, only to gradually increase in tempo and eventually turn lively and upbeat. The mourners joined in the song while they followed him as he lead the procession through the mountain and into the Great Hall. The crowd steadily swelled and by the time everyone had filed into the Great Hall for the repass reception all were singing and not a seat was left empty.

Fast was broken with rich stew, sweet corn bread bread, and the traditional wake loaf, filled with nuts, fruit and spices. The meal was warming, comforting and wholesome. Tea, ale and mead flowed freely, and nobody left for many hours.

 

Oifa had been on her feet with nary a break since the nutut’udmas, standing vigil in the crypt for long hours during most nights, taking turns with Dís - and Gimli, who insisted. Durin the day Oifa was organizing the funeral and the feast, and also lent the umzâr her strength at those times when Dis and Fárni were not available in the azlâdu; Dwalin only knew because he did one of his unexpected detours one evening - at a time Fárni told him Oifa was supposed to rest - and saw her sitting with a few umzâr in their hall, pouring tea and handing out handkerchiefs. So much for rest.

The little dam also didn’t neglect her special attention to the Royal Wing, where Balin caught her in the very early hours one time when she cleared empty dishes and tankards from the table in the Company’s private hall. Jarspur reported that when she was in her private room - rarely enough as it was - light was visible under the door at all times, meaning she either slept with the lights on or she didn’t sleep at all.

Judging by her face it was the latter.

Dwalin was as concerned as all of the Company, but he also had observed Oifa long before the first bell one morning, where she was mopping the steps and walkways of the great thoroughfare through the mountain. Left, right, left, right, rinse, squeeze, again. He had watched her for a while, her steady rhythm, her focussed face. He understood then that she needed that familiar physical occupations to keep her busy thoughts at bay and distract her from her despair.

Fárni was exasperated though. “I have taken her off the roster for the time being, since she’s so busy with the funeral and all, only to find that she has added herself to several shifts anyway.” The dam shook her head and muttered under her breath. “It’s not healthy, Dwalin,” she said, “She’s doing too much.”

Nodding, Dwalin scratched the beard on his chin. “I know,” he sighed, “But she struggles coping right now, and the familiar work helps her. Leave her be until after the funeral, I’m sure she’ll slow down again then.”

Fárni grimaced. “If she doesn’t slow down I get Óin involved,” she promised darkly and Dwalin couldn’t suppress a grin - and a shudder. He knew well how grating the gruff healer could be when he felt his patients were in his care because of stupidity of their own.

If Oifa was too stubborn to take her rest she would find the deaf healer would well match that stubbornness.

 

= - = - =

 

“You need to speak to her,” Fárni said to Dwalin when he came by the umzâr‘s azlâdu five days after the funeral. “I worry. I understand she needs time, but it’s getting ridiculous. She’s working herself into the ground. You have a connection with her, please spend some time with her and see if you can give her some comfort. Make her see some sense.”

Dwalin frowned, glancing at the little dam’s empty desk. “Where is she?”

Fárni sighed. “It’s her half day off today, a time she was meant to use to rest. Yet, she went to the crypt once more.”

Dwalin only nodded in understanding and left, directing his feet to the sacred place deep in the mountain.

When he arrived at the crypt he nodded at Jarspur’s appointed guard, who stood just outside, and slowly entered.

Oifa sat on one of the stone benches in the stone chamber where the three dams and their pebbles had their final resting place.

Even in the dim light from the few torches he could see that Oifa was pale and still had the aubergine coloured rings under her eyes.

Dwalin's heart was heavy and he sighed.

"Miss Oifa," he mumbled, slowly coming closer, not wanting to startle her.

She did startle though, despite his efforts, jerking her head into his direction, rising from her seat when she recognized him.

"Lord Dwalin," she whispered, dropping into a shaky courtesy.

"Dwalin," he said, giving her a small smile.

She nodded absentmindedly, and Dwalin could see that she hadn't even heard him. Gesturing to the bench, she sat down again. He settled himself next to her.

He had long learned, that silence was a good companion.

So he sat in silence.

"I am sorry," she whispered after a long time.

He raised his eyebrows. "About what?" he asked softly, confused.

Licking her dry lips she shrug her shoulders, "That I am so ... shaken ... about all of this."

Dwalin sighed and shook his head. "There is really no need to apologize, my dear Miss Oifa," he said quietly, "It gives you great merit to have a heart that big that it cares to such extent for others, especially when you haven’t even really known them."

She took in a shuddering breath. "There is no merit in any of this," she whispered and squeezed her eyes shut.

"Oh, yes," he disagreed with much warmth, "There absolutely is." He was silent for a moment, trying to choose his words carefully. "I know well how hard it is to say goodbye to the one’s we’ve lost. While it is true that it is a great deal harder if it was someone we loved, if it was family, it is not really less difficult if it was someone we just met in passing or even if it was someone we didn't know in person at all. Most find it easier however, to lock the feelings for those - more impersonal losses - away, hide them in a far corner of their souls and underneath the daily routines of their lives. It is to your credit that you have done no such thing." He watched her, frowning when she stared into the room, eyes wide, unseeing.

“Yes,” she whispered, “I grieve for them. For what they have lost. For how their lives ended. For the choice they made. To rather become umzâr’deshnâr rather than stay umzâr’idshân, the lowest of the low in the mountain. It breaks my heart to think that they would have deeply regretted their choice at some stage. That they would have had to realize, at some stage, that they were past a point of no return.” She looked at her hands, demurely folded in her lap. “My heart aches for Vira. She was the widow of a good dwarf, she loved him. She so wanted to have his pebble. A pebble, to help with the loneliness. She would have loved this pebble, given it her everything, even if ...” she faltered, “Even if it was that of a nameless dwarf.”

Dwalin sighed deeply. “Pebbles are a rare blessing,” he agreed, “All three should have been welcomed with joy and showered with tenderness and love.” He looked at the little dam. Even though her posture was straight there was an invisible weight that seemed to drag her shoulders into a droop. The line of her jaw was taught and her lips had a bitter curve he had not noted on her before.

“That is not all though,” he suddenly realized, “That is not all that is troubling you.”

Her eyes flickered to him briefly. For a moment he thought she would deny it, but then she let out her breath in a whoosh, as if she’d been holding it for too long, her figure softening, and answered him. “Memories, Dwalin,” she whispered, and he wanted to kiss her for saying his name without a title. “Memories and feelings I have not allowed myself to have in a long time. Not since arriving in Erebor. About my Adad. All the pain he was in. How the medicines ate up most of the money we managed to earn. How good it was when Olwe was accepted in the barracks. He was fed and clothed there and his wage, little as it was, helped to ease so many worries at home. But then Adad passed, and even with Olwe’s money we struggled to afford a decent burial. It seemed wrong to just place the son of Ovdari, Seneschal of Erebor, into the poor section of the Iron Hill’s burial chambers. So we sold nearly everything we had and spent all the money on a tiny family mausoleum, and organized a beautiful stone carving for his casket. We couldn’t rightout pay for that one though, and my Amad made a deal with one of the stone carvers. He lived with his son and they needed someone to keep their home clean, do their washing, mending and some cooking. The deal was for a year. It was a good deal and they wanted to keep her on afterwards, for coin. It would have been steady, regular pay. But then the son married and his wife saw no need of Amad’s help, naturally.” She sounded so young, so vulnerable.

Dwalin could say no words of comfort; he knew that there was nothing he could say to ease that painful memory. “Washing clothes, Amad and I earned no coin, only food and lodging in the Washers’ Lane. We had even less than before Adad returned to stone. So when Olwe was killed on patrol we carved a simple casket ourselves, because we couldn’t find a way to pay anyone to do it. I had watched the carver work often, I managed to borrow some tools and worked hard to make a nice border and his name. It was not exactly shonky work, and while it wasn’t great either, it certainly was craftsmanship he would have approved of,” she looked a little bit proud and Dwalin’s heart skipped a beat. But then she continued, her voice flat from recalling her memories of loss and heartbreak. “When Amad died I had to place her body with Adad’s as I could not afford her her own casket. I added her name and a few runes for love and affection. But it was sad. None of them had a Reading, or a procession, no oration or a feast. So you see,” she looked at him sadly, and almost a little ashamed. “I was really just being selfish. Doing all this for Vira, Bretta and Merethe, and their pebbles. It was for me almost more than it was for them. To do all the things I would have loved to do for my blood family.” She looked at her hands again. “But I guess the umzâr are as good as my family now, even if not by blood. It’s all it will ever be.” She shook herself a little and straightened her spine and smoothed her skirts. “And it’s where I should be. Not here. Not any longer.”

And she jumped up, suddenly determined. But as soon as she was on her feet she swayed. Thank Mahal Dwalin’s reflexes were fast and he also was up in an instant, taking her elbow to steady her. “Oifa,” he said concerned. Her eyes were closed and he did not like her pallor.

“It is nothing, Mylord,” she whispered, white as chalk, and swayed again, “I just got up a bit too quickly.”

Holding on to her elbow Dwalin stepped closer until he was in her personal space and gently steered her forward until her forehead came to lean against his broad chest. The little dam didn’t recoil and she didn’t draw back. They stood silently like that for a few precious moments. Dwalin looked down at the neat braids at the crown of her head. She smelled of fresh washing and of wood polish. Closing his eyes Dwalin breathed in slowly and deeply. She was warm and he _knew_ , he knew she would fit into his arms perfectly. But he would not encroach on her any more. Long years of battle had honed his instincts, and his instincts told him that he would break whatever fragile ... thing ... they had between them. He was a soldier. He had learned patience. He would be patient in this. It was too precious to him.

So when another heartbeat later she straightened and stepped back from him he let go of her elbow immediately. “Miss Oifa,” he said softly instead and waited until she found the courage to look up at him. When her eyes met his he smiled, putting as much tenderness in his features as he could. “I understand all your sorrow, and all your regret, I truly do. And it breaks my heart that your fate has been as it was, in the Iron Hills. I know well the pain of not being able to pay those we love their final respects, it is what many of us fleeing Erebor had to experience, in our Wandering Years and at Azanubilzar. And we had to live with it. It is something I’d wish on no-one. And I do not think, not for a moment, that you’ve been selfish in your efforts for Vira, Bretta and Merethe. Not one bit. It was a small step, a tiny one, to deal with your own grief, which you have denied yourself for a long time.” He lowered his voice imploringly. “But I do ask you to not forget that there has to be a balance between the grief for the dead and the joy for life. You know well that you have been doing too much these past weeks. And it is doing you harm. I’m sure your Amad would scold you for it, as Amad’s are want to do when it is about their pebble’s wellbeing.” Dwalin bit his tongue at the last moment, as he almost, almost found himself saying ‘ _you said it yourself in your prayer, please let my family not see me like this, they’d be so worried_ ’. Foolish old dwarf, he thought before managing to redirect his thoughts. “Which is why I would ask you now to let me accompany you back to your room, so you can try and get some sleep. Please. It will not do to have you collapse with exhaustion.”

She stared at him, as she always did, totally transfixed. Dwalin felt the corners of his mouth curl up even more, just as the crinkles in the corners of his eye deepened.

Shaking herself a little Oifa drew in a deep breath. “Thank you, Mylord,” she said quietly, “You are too kind. But I have Jarspur’s guard with me. He will make sure I get back safely.”

Dwalin nodded. “Of course he would,” he agreed easily, “But I intend to send your guard to Dori to fetch a special blend of tea that might assist you in finding a calm, deep, relaxed sleep. You might not know this yet, but Dori is as particular with his teas as he is with his braids. And at any rate, Dori’s teas are preferable to Óin‘s draughts.” He bent down a little to whisper conspiratorial: “Don’t forget that the healer is related to Fárni by marriage. And she’s worried about you. So is Dis. And so am I, for that matter. And I think you’ll prefer Dori’s tea over Óin‘s draughts.” He screwed up his face in pretend thought. “No,” he added, firmly, “As one who had plenty of Óin‘s draughts, I am certain of it.” And he winked at her and smiled widely, to make sure she understood his light words were just gentle teasing.

Oifa looked contrite, but she also blushed, and Dwalin took that as a good sign. “If you’re sure,” she said hesitantly after a while, her big eyes roaming his face.

He smiled at her. “That I am.” He offered her his arm and she took it, her eyes focussing firmly on the stone floor. Together they left the crypt, Dwalin giving his orders to the guard on the way out, before taking Oifa all the way back to her room in the umzâr‘s azlâdu.

 

 

= - = - =

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt it necessarily for Oifa to deal with her memories and her grief. There is no moving forward if she cannot cope with the past. 
> 
> amradshomak - Guard of the Dead  
> nutut’udmas - nutut: final (last) + ‘udmas: greatest law (judgement/doom) = execution  
> umzâr’deshnâr: supreme workers  
> umzâr’idshân: lesser workers


	14. A Craft is the Essence of all Dwarrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Several months later. Oifa is confronted with the view of others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay. I guess I fell into the same trap as many writers, beginning to publish a multi-chapter story before I was completely finished writing it. And then, naturally, I ran a bit out of steam. Lesson learned, it won’t happen again :) An extra long chapter today, and the few remaining ones will follow over the next couple of weeks. Only good thing about the long delay is that I wrote on several other stories during that time, so there’s more to come from me still.

Taking a deep breath you slowly sat down behind your desk and exhaled in a long, slow swoosh.

 _Your_ desk.

The only desk in the office of a nameless dwarf who once was the Izrikruk of the umzâr’s azlâdu.

A position that was now officially yours.

Fárni had concluded the task she had been assigned to do by the Princess Dís and the King, namely sorting out the mess that was the umzâr’s daily life and getting things back on track. With that task finished, Fárni had left. And you were solely in charge for the umzâr.

Even though you were by now more than familiar with all the responsibilities that were involved it was still terribly daunting. The King had summoned you before Open Court and bestowed upon you the high honour of gifting you with a bead, a golden bead inlaid with emerald chips that declared you the Marshal of the Court of Erebor.

Your fellow umzâr were ecstatic.

You had prepared yourself for some possible grumbling and resentment that you should receive this high honour and not one of them, but as far as you could tell and to your great relief there was none of that sentiment and they still considered you one of their own.

The former office of a nameless dwarf was still giving the umzâr creeps - and you if you were being honest, regardless of how many hours you had already spent in it since that dwarf had been forcefully removed. No matter how much furniture had been rearranged to fit both you and Fárni, as well as Aggi for a time, the very feel of the room still left a bad taste in your mouth, even more so now that you were alone in it for many hours every day. Since the King had decreed that you should not only have to sign a detailed contract which thoroughly listed your many responsibilities and also your considerable rights, but that you should also receive a weekly pay - which was far more generous than you believed it should be - your first point of order had been to use the first few payments to completely change the look of your office.

As the room was, strictly speaking, fully functional and even Fárni hadn’t begun changing too much apart from bringing in a few additional chairs you didn’t think it was appropriate to make it your first order of business to order new furnishings. Hence it took a couple of weeks to get things done bit by bit, beginning with sourcing the right craftspeople for the respective tasks. Although that did not happen without considerable help: Lord Ori was able to point you in the direction of an artistic inclined dwarf who painted a mural on one wall, creating the illusion the office was a mere terrace and beyond the intricate carved stone balustrade lay a vast cavern, showing golden lights and mingling dwarrow in a far-off market place. Jarspur had helped you move the furniture around and bring in a lovely new set of padded chairs with armrests which you had found in a small store in the Second Market, a small, round table completing the set. Lord Bofur brought in his cousin, Lord Bifur, who sanded the surface of the desk back and attached a beautiful slate of white marble. You were very much in love with the look and the feel of it. Lord Dori introduced you to a dwarf who was dealing in rugs and helped you decide on a big, plush, emerald green one with a pink and dark rose pattern. The dusty tapestries were removed and replaced with several mosaics showing scenes of the umzâr’s daily life, done by a librarian after sketches of Lord Ori. And the dwarf in charge of decorating council rooms, banquet hall and private guest rooms of non-Khazâd dignitaries with the large, intricate flower arrangements you admired so much was contracted to deliver a much smaller version of his creations into your office at the beginning of every new week.

Taking in another deep breath you couldn’t help but smile a little. The flowers’ scent was fresh and beautiful and the scent alone would have been enough to breathe new life into the room, but together with the other changes your office was almost your new favourite place. Nothing would ever top your very own bath tub or large, soft bed, but it was a close call.

Settling yourself behind your desk you focused on the roster. Now that Fárni was no longer signing off on it you finally had free reign to add your own name to the various chores as well. Yes, you were busier than ever before.

Which was good.

As it kept your mind from straying.

From straying to a certain dwarf.

You still felt yourself blushing when you thought back on the moment in the crypt. In a moment of weakness you had leaned against _Dwalin_. In that moment it had felt so _good_ , so safe, his body heat engulfed and wrapped around you. A cocoon of safety and warmth. And the kind words he spoke. They were like a balm to your very soul. Then he had offered his arm and taken you back to your room, even organized tea for you form Lord Dori.

 _Mahal_.

As wonderful as it was at the time, the memory of it was mortifying now.

Well, mostly mortifying. Apart from when you allowed yourself to vividly recall the heat radiating from the formidable dwarf. His solid chest. His large, gentle hand on your elbow.   The play of the muscles in his arms you felt even through his armour.

 _You have a crush_ , you chastised yourself wryly. A crush on one of the most desirable dwarves in the Kingdom. Because why not. You might as well nurse a crush for the King, as so many other dams did. Equally unattainable. Dwalin was a highborn lord, from the line of Durin, a Lord Companion and a renowned warrior. No matter how friendly and kind he was to you, it would never, ever come to more than that.

All you could do was indulge in dreaming what it would be like to stroll through the markets with the imposing warrior at your side, your hand on his muscly arm.

You sighed, trying to focus on the paperwork before you. Deeply embarrassed by the inappropriateness of your feelings you had avoided the Guard Captain as much as possible. Had avoided anyone, for that matter. Now, that the King had bestowed the title of Marshal of the Court on you it felt more than ever that you had to devote all your time to the umzâr, their work and their needs. And you would.

Which meant that now you would really be focusing on the rosters. It was just six weeks out from Durin’s Day, meaning the mountain would soon be busting from its seams with esteemed guests, foreign dignitaries and visitors. The workload was immense, much of it falling on the umzâr. The better you were prepared for it, the smoother things would run. Which meant linens and bedsheets were already washed and readied, tapestries and rugs were aired already aired and you had managed to have a large number of glass orbs cleaned ahead of schedule.

It was mid-morning and you were totally absorbed in your work when there was a knock at the now always open door to your office.

"Miss Oifa," a gravelly voice said.

Lifting your eyes from the linen inventory you were working through, you looked at Dwalin, who stood in the door frame in all his broad and muscly glory.

Dropping your quill from your suddenly sweaty fingers you rose from your seat. "Lord Dwalin," you said, giving a courtesy, "How can I be of service?"

"Dwalin," he said, as he did many times before, his intense eyes taking in your dress of midnight blue silk with white lacings at the front over richly embroidered white silk and heavily ruffled around the bodice, raising gooseflesh on your arms. "And his Majesty requests your presence."

You frowned. "Right now?" you asked weakly, even though you knew better.

"Afraid so," Dwalin confirmed promptly, "Nothing to worry about though, I promise." He smiled at you.

Willing yourself not to look at his dimple you gave him a slight nod, coming out from behind your desk and following him. You walked in silence. He shortened his stride and you found yourself beside him, which did nothing to calm the twirling insides of your stomach.

Entering the Royal Wing you noticed a lot more guards than normally, and the Royal Guards outside the King’s private office snapped to attention especially ... snappy ... when Dwalin approached.

Biting your lip to hide a little grin you looked up at him when he rasped his knuckles sharply on the King's door. His grey eyes met yours and you blushed, getting the odd feeling that he knew exactly what you were thinking.

"Enter," the King's baritone voice said. Dwalin opened the door for you and you entered, the tall dwarf stepping inside behind you, pulling the door shut.

You caught Thorin's eye, who was seated behind his desk, looking as regal as ever in rich, Durin blue clothing, and curtseyed. "Good evening, Miss Oifa," the King said kindly, "I hope we did not take you away from anything important at this hour."

"Not ... not at all, your Majesty," you stammered, chastising yourself for it.

The King smiled at you. "My cousin and I have been speaking about recent events in Erebor and those umzâr that have fled the misery of our azlâdu and made their way to the Iron Hills. My sister had given me a brief report on the circumstances that had made you decide to leave the Iron Hills and come here. If I remember correctly your father had been gravely injured when he fled Erebor and even though the Iron Hills paid him a small pension it was not enough to see his family settled after his death. My cousin and I are in the process to go over wergild payments and pensions before our councilors join us for negotiations after the Durin’s Day celebrations. While these negotiations happen every year it seems that after all that’s happened recently we have to look into certain areas a bit more closely. Maybe you can give us some more details about the hardships you and your mother faced when the money ran dry.”

You swallowed, for the first time noticing the other dwarf in the room: Dain, King of the Iron Hills!

"Your Majesty," you breathed, bobbing another courtesy in his direction.

"It's quite alright," the Ironfoot boomed, looking his usual fierce self. You had seen him, of course, in the Iron Hills, but only ever from a distance. His appearance was true to his reputation as a mighty dwarf lord and a fierce warrior in his own right. A mohawk of vivid ginger hair crowned a broad forehead decorated with the dark inks of his tattoos. His thick hair was framing his gruff face, the braids were proudly decorated with iron and silver clasps and the white wisps of his beard were accented by the interwoven boar tusks. He was said to always wear armour, but he did not so now: only in dark pants and a rust read tunic that clashed with his hair he looked no less intimidating. Up close you took note of his sharp blue eyes under bushy eyebrows, not unlike Thorin’s, even though it was a different shade of blue. Their intensity was not unlike Dwalin’s either. Neither was your reaction to his taxing look.

"Oifa, is it? Thorin tells me you are the granddaughter of Ovdari?" He boomed and you blushed even more before nodding. "Yes, your Majesty, at your service.” You added a proper bow for good measure.

Dain’s sharp eyes lit up and looked you over thoroughly. "I’ve met him once, on a visit to Erebor when I was a lad. He was an imposing dwarf, his demeanor demanding respect and courtesy both. My father often lamented the lack of one of his skill in the Iron Hills. I had not known that his son had survived the sacking of Erebor and made it East. It grieves me to hear that his family did struggle so badly, first in my kingdom and then in Thorin’s. My cousin, however, seems to have been able to fix the troubles here and I want to be able to do the same in the Iron Hills. So tell me, Miss Oifa, about your life in my kingdom."

You swallowed, shooting a quick glance to Dwalin, who had stepped around you, positioning himself in his usual spot behind Thorin. He gave you an encouraging nod. Wondering if he had told the details of your life you had confessed to him in confidence you nervously twisted your hands in your skirt.

Thorin cleared his throat, making you look up at him with wide eyes. The King’s expression was gentle and his voice kind. “Please do not think that we have ulterior motives or even previous knowledge of your life in the Iron Hills: we do not. Whatever you may or may not have told others has not been made privy to me, nor to Dain. The conversation we are having now is solely the result of mine telling Dain about the terrible state your azlâdu has been in for too many years, and an appraisal of the state of the worker’s lives’ in the Iron Hills. In an effort to figure out the flaws in the system as it is now. What could be changed? What must be improved?”

Thorin clearly read your mind and, giving another quick glance to Dwalin, you knew you did a bad job of hiding your relief to know that he had not told them about your confessions in the crypt. The warrior’s face gave nothing away, but in his eyes you thought you read a flicker of indignation and disbelief.

Guilt gnawed at you briefly, for doubting an honourable dwarf like him, but it was quickly overcome by deep apprehension of having to divulge your story yet again.

Wringing your hands you tried to find the right words and told both Majesties briefly about your life with your parents and your nadad in the productive halls of the Iron Hills, famous for their mining of iron and the subsequent working of the metal. About how your Adad had not really healed from Smaug’s burns and the long term treatment was difficult and Ove unable to find work due to the constant pain he was in. How lucky your Adad and Amad were to have found each other, giving them love when everything else seemed so hard. How hard it was even decades later to access a healer for your Adad and if one was willing to come all the way to your home in the back lanes of the lower district how hard it was to follow his instructions as both the mediation and the special burns bandages he prescribed were almost impossible to afford. You told how happy you all were when Olwe was accepted to the barracks, and how proud. And how heartbreaking it was when first your Adad died and nobody cared to give the son of the Seneschal of Erebor a proper burial ceremony. How his pension dried up over night and was sorely missing. How much harder things became when Olwe perished only a few years after in the line of duty and his pay was lost, too. How you shared a cot with your Amad, first in the kitchen hands’ quarters then in Washer’s Lane, because you could no longer afford the tiny house you used to live in; the landlord raising the monthly pay to a ridiculous amount, unwilling to continue a lease to dams he deemed to have no prospect. How long workdays were and how lonely life was, but at least you had each other, your Amad and you. How it all changed when she passed, too. How you left the place of your birth and your family’s tombs to go and see where your Adad’s stories came from: Erebor.

When you were finished you were trembling and near tears and Dain looked at you with a deep frown, his grizzly face solemn. "It is a great shame, Miss Oifa, that because of the oversight of some and the greed of others good dwarrow faced hardships that could have been avoided. You see, my father had ordered a census to gather the information of those that had arrived at the Iron Hills from the destroyed Erebor and those that remained after Thror lead them West. It should have been known that Ovdari’s son was in the Iron Hills, badly injured at that, and he should have been immediately treated in the infirmary, which may have well alleviated some of his pains later in life. Old Ovdari was a thorough dwarf and I’m sure he taught your Adad well, which means his knowledge would have been of good use to the Iron Hills. And you should have received a pension from the Crown for your Nadad’s passing, as all my soldiers’ families do when they lose their life in the service of my Kingdom. I will look into it why that has not happened. If there are some dwarrow that use their positions to advance themselves and do not perform their duties with honesty and honour - and it seems that way - they will find themselves at the very wrong end of my wrath. It pains me, Miss Oifa, to think that your family may not be the only one affected of such misdeeds. Once I return to the Iron Hills I will investigate the matter further, you have my word on that."

Taking a shuddering breath you bowed your head. “Thank you, your Majesty.” You suddenly felt drained and tired and even though you were sure Dain would keep his word and get to the bottom of things you couldn’t help but think it was all too little, too late. Certainly too late for your Adad, Amad and Nadad.

“In the meantime,” King Dain spoke again, leaning over the desk, grabbing a quill and pulling some parchment closer, scribbling on in with a concentrated face. He narrowed his eyes in thought for a moment before signing it with a flourish and with a determined nod. Getting to his feet and step-clonking towards you with his heavy false iron foot you hunched your shoulders in worry. He, too, was tall, not quite as tall as Dwalin, and not as broad, but certainly radiating the same kind of body heat as well as a regal air, much like Thorin. The Durins were famous for far more than just their bloodline after all. But he looked down at you with a smile when he came to a halt before you. “Miss Oifa,” his voice was soft and briefly you wondered if all Durins had the ability to sound rough and harsh and soft at the same time, with eyes that burned with intensity and saw everything. Dain’s eyes now roamed your face. “Miss Oifa,” he said again, “my Kingdom has not done well in taking care of your family. It is too late and I fear it is too little to even begin to ease the pains of your suffering ...“ you shuddered, convinced now that all Durin’s could read your mind, too “... but I wish for you to have this. A token of my sorrow and a very poor apology, but hopefully also a token for the future. To mark a new beginning and give you hope.” He held out the parchment.

Blinking, you looked down on it without touching. Flicking your eyes over the words ‘ _to Oifa, daughter of Ove, son of Ovdari ... as reparation instalment … to compensate for wrongdoings of the Kingdom of the Iron Hills done to the aforementioned dam and her family ... in gold … the sum of ....._ ”

You felt dizzy.

Blinking, you read it again.

Perplexed and quite at a loss you looked back up at Dain, whose blue eyes watched you intently. After a moment of silence you pushed the parchment back at him without taking it. "Thank you, your Majesty, but I don't want this."

Dain's eyebrows rose and his forehead crinkled into a scowl to rival Dwalin's.

"Forgive me, what I mean to say is," you searched for words, "I thank you for your kindness and generosity. And the acknowledgment that things need to be improved. But my family ... they are gone now and have no use of it any more. And I ... me ... myself ... I do not need any gold. I have all that I could wish for," you took a resolute step back, "I have a place I can call home, my days are filled with purpose, I am fed and clothed and I earn enough for small luxuries on the side. I assure you, I lack nothing."

Dain stared at you as if you had grown a second head. "Lass," he growled, "Even so, you are young, with no family to boot. If not for now, it might be wise to keep it for later. If ever you find a dwarf that wants you for wife you might be glad to have some coin to spare, to start a new life."

You couldn't help but break out in peals of laughter, snorting when both Kings looked at you as if you had gone insane. "Forgive me - again - your Majesty," you hastened to say, feeling a fire red blush creep up your neck, "but that is highly unlikely. Who would possibly be interested in a dam as plain and unskilled as me? It would have to be a rather mad dwarf indeed. It will never happen. I'd rather," you gestured at the Ironfoot’s hands that still held the parchment, "you give this to someone who really needs it. Sponsor an orphan. Or upgrade the plumbing in the washerwomen's halls. Or use it to pay for a new dress for all unwed lasses in your Kingdom that are not of noble birth."

You were still feeling rather mirthful when Dwalin accompanied you back to your office. "Thank you for taking me back," you said, blushing when he remained standing in the door to your office, looking down at you strangely.

You suddenly became very aware that you had rebuked one King and laughed at two.

The mirth went away.

Rubbing a hand over your forehead you took a deep breath and couldn’t help but mutter: “Mahal, I must have gone mad, saying things like that. What is wrong with me?”

Dwalin gave a snort and you lifted your eyes to him.

He still looked at you oddly. "Dain has a point," he said quietly after a moment, "You are of marrying age, have a good position. It is not so far-fetched that a dwarf might be interested in you."

You shook your head, exasperated. What was it with all of them thinking you would marry? "Mylord," you began-

"Dwalin," he interrupted, "If it's just us, call me Dwalin. Do me the courtesy. Please."

Trying to ignore the blush that crept up your face you lifted your chin determinedly and met his eyes. "Dwalin," you said firmly, your insides melting when his eyes lit up and he smiled, showing that dimple. "I will be frank. My upbringing in the Iron Hills was one of very little accolade. Back then I would so have wished for a chance to learn more, to get a better education, to learn a craft. I would have given anything for that. I was very fortunate that my Adad was able to teach me so much more than other dams of my age and station were able to receive. When both he and Olwe left for Mahal's halls, it was a hard hit to find out their lives meant little to others, and that their sacrifices were counted in a pittance. And that any knowledge or education I might have received was worth nothing. But what happened there is in the past. It is a silly notion to think giving me gold now would change that. I do understand the sentiment, I do." You shook your head, trying to explain, "But really, no dwarf worth his salt will want to involve himself with a dam that has learned no craft. A craft is the essence of all dwarrow, their pride and joy. And us down here in the azlâdu-" you made a sweeping motion with your hand for emphasis, "Will have to make do without."

Dwalin hummed, his grey eyes boring into you. "There is far more to dwarrow than their craft. All those that have been wandering for so long will tell you that. We have had over a century to learn that there is so much more to a person than just the craft they may have learned. I fear, Miss Oifa, you are selling yourself short. Very short indeed. Which makes you all the more special."

With that, he gave a rather deep bow, and left you startled and alone in your office.

 

 

= . = . =

 

 

That night Dwalin indulged.

For the first time in a long time he drowned his feelings in his cups. He had drunk out of anger, out of grief, out of frustration and loneliness. He had never drunk out of sadness. So that was a first. But after Oifa’s words, after her audience with the two Kings, Dwalin was sad.

She had kept her distance, ever since that day in the crypt. And he let her be. Giving her space to get comfortable again after all the emotional turmoil of the previous months. But then Fárni left the azlâdu and Oifa was appointed Marshal of the Court. She worked just as hard as before, not shirking putting herself on the rosters to mop floors, mend clothes, polish silver, do the laundry, go on ash duty or spend hours on her own cleaning the glass orbs of the famous golden lights before they could be refilled. She no longer took the uneaten pastries from committee meetings to the umzâr. She now purchased them in the markets from her own money and Dwalin wanted to slap himself for having mentioned that they used to go to the guards, because he knew that otherwise she would not spent her own coin like that.

She spent next to nothing otherwise. A few silk ribbons, satin slippers, gold thread, an embroidery hoop and needles. A small light crystal. The odd spiced bat sausage. A hand bound leather book. The few precious free hours she had she wandered the halls of Erebor alone, strolling through the markets. She even had ventured to the Gate once or twice, looking wistfully out to Dale.

Dwalin had dropped a hint to Fárni, who’d promptly organized an outing, and of course Oifa was to be a part of it, but then some pipes burst and flooded half the lower floors and the laundry and the trip was cancelled as Oifa was buried in work.

Every time Dwalin found himself alone with the little dam or saw her in meetings or in the umzâr’s halls she looked at him with wide eyes and fled like a small animal would from a predator. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of it, but he was sure her attitude towards him had only changed after her little outpouring in the crypt. Maybe she felt embarrassed about it. But that she would think he’d babble about what she told him in confidence in a moment of emotional weakness?

Dwalin shook his head and forced himself to lessen his grip on the mug of ale before him. 

Oifa sought no contact with anyone outside of work and even refrained from joining Bofur or Jarspur at the umzâr’s common hall for meals. Of course Fárni didn’t accept her excuses when she invited Oifa for tea or dinner to her home, but even though Oifa did come, she stayed barely long enough to empty her cup or her plate and fluttered off again, citing duties and lack of time.

It was obvious that Miss Oifa was set on living her life in the service of the umzâr, with no other ambitions in life other than to work diligently and be a ‘good person’. Not only was she set on it, she had accepted that this was all it ever would be for her. No family. Only a handful of friends which were mere acquaintances as she kept herself guarded and at a distance.

Aye, it mad Dwalin sad.

That she would not see how desirable she was in the eyes of many. And, oh aye, Dwalin noticed well the looks the little dam received in the markets and on her walks through the mountain, where he followed without her knowing, without her guard noticing, too.

Dwalin didn’t like that she undeniably received attention. But he would not stop it. She needed to figure it out on her own. She needed to figure out that there was more to life than work and that opening her heart a little would not mean she’d forgo her diligence and strong sense of duty. Few knew that mindset better than him, having allowed himself not to expect more from his life than work and duty for such a long, long, _long_ time. He might never have changed his view on things if they hadn’t reclaimed Erebor. But they did, and so he had. And he would not wish for it to be any different. But had someone told him a couple of decades ago it was to be so he would have laughed at them and questioned their brains. The little dam needed to come to the same conclusion.

On her own.

Dwalin only hoped it was sooner, rather than later and that she would not have to undergo decades of trial and hardship to get there. It would hurt his heart too much to have to watch her in such turmoil.

“Ran into Rytas, who owns one of the leather shops at the market. He’s been mooning over your little dam like a heartsick fool. He’ll ask her out if you don’t,” Bofur said to him as he slid on the seat across the table from him. “And there’s a few miners who keep mentioning her name.”

Dwalin shot him a glare and took a deep drink from his ale, but didn’t comment.

The joyful miner shook his head, oddly serious. “She’ll slip through your fingers if you’re not careful.” When Dwalin still didn’t grace him with a response he sighed deeply. “I don’t understand why you wait. You like her, she likes you, and every idiot can see it. Why don’t you approach her? She’ll be glad to have some private excitement in her busy life and courting you surely would be exactly that.”

Dwalin remained silent.

“It’s not that simple,” Thorin said as he took his seat next to Dwalin, Dain in tow.

Dwalin sighed inwardly. There had been a bloody reason why he left the Great Halll to drink in the Company’s private quarters: not to have any of his soldiers watch him moping and to be left alone!

He should have known better and gone to his room for some privacy, a keg of ale as his only confidant. “Can a dwarf not drink in peace?” he muttered as Dain slid in the seat next to Bofur, promptly followed by Dís and Balin. At least Dain’s son was absent: young Stonehelm was a little full of himself - the quirks of youth, but hard to take in a moment like this, when emotion was raw and patience ran thin.

“Why ever not?” Bofur asked, the miner as usual completely unimpressed to be surrounded by Durin’s blood.

“Because Miss Oifa has made it abundantly clear today that she is convinced to be unworthy of the attention of any dwarf, plain and unskilled as she believes herself to be, with no craft to boot.”

Bofur’s jaw dropped at Thorin’s explanation. “Now that’s just daft, isn’t it?” He shrugged when Dwalin couldn’t help the growl low in his throat, completely unperturbed by the angry look he received from the warrior. The miner shrugged. “I’m not saying _she’s_ daft, Dwalin.” Bofur rolled his eyes. “You know bloody well that’s something I’d never say.” He eyed Dwalin who silently downed another big gulp of ale. “Why would she think that though? Lots of dwarrow don’t have a craft.”

Dain blinked at him. “Who?” the Ironfoot asked him thoughtfully. “What dwarf does not have a craft? I am a warrior. A King. It’s what I’ve learned since the day I could walk. Thorin’s the same. Plus he’s a smith. Balin’s a politician, has learned all the diplomatic ways, plus he’s got a Mastery in the Scrivener Guild. And he’s learned in the ways of combat and a fecking menace with the mace.” Balin saluted him with a small smile and a lift of his cup of wine. “Dwalin’s learned in Warcraft as few others,” Dain continued, “He’s an expert with the axe and the sword, and a weapon’s smith to boot. Even Dis-“

“Even Dis?” the princess interrupted him with a scowl, ignoring Thorin’s snort, waving her hand at Dain when he hesitated. “No please, cousin, don’t be shy. ‘Even Dís’ what?”

“You’re a princess,” Dain said, rather defensively, “It’s one thing to be one by birth, but you’ve also trained to be one since you were a little dam, and under very adverse circumstances for most of your life. Folk don’t understand what it’s like. To always be in the spotlight. To have to make decisions on the fate of others. To be in charge of everyone’s wellbeing. It’s never easy, no matter how long you’ve been doing it. And there’s not a foolproof method to it either. It’s different every other year, every other season.”

Dís nodded in agreement, seemingly appeased. “Don’t forget though,” she said, pointing a finger at Dain, “I’ve also been a wife. And I am a mother. There’s no training for that. For none of us, who are lucky to go down the path of marriage and parenthood.”

Dain inclined his head in acquiescence. “True, so very true.” He narrowed his eyes at Dwalin who glared right back. “If I understand correctly, cousin, you’ve interest in the little dam I met today?”

Dwalin’s only response was to glare murderously at Dain and take another gulp from his ale, slamming the empty tankard down on the table hard.

Dain grunted as he took in the warrior’s demeanor and chuckled lowly before he said: “She sure is special. Pleasing to the eye, with good manners and a sharp mind, too. And pride. Pride never goes amiss with the Durins.” He stroked his beard thoughtfully. “You’re lucky I’ve found my heart, otherwise I’d make sure to get to know her better. And lucky, too, that my son is fond of the more ... frisky ... dams. Otherwise I’d make him interested in Miss Oifa. The granddaughter of Seneschal Ovdari, herself a Marshal of the Court of Erebor, would be no bad match to the heir of the Iron Hills.”

Dwalin’s scowl was fierce now and when he clenched his fists his knuckles cracked.

Dain watched him closely, his blue eyes sharp. Then he threw his head back and boomed a laugh. “Mahal have mercy! You are smitten with her.” Running his hand through his beard once more he chuckled. “Restassuredly, cousin, none of mine will make a move on the little dam. But from what I’ve seen today you’ll have your work cut out to convince her of her desirability and have her realize her worth.”

Dwalin grimaced. ”But that’s it, isn’t it. She set on thinking she doesn’t need anything else in her life but her work. And she doesn’t think her work is considered a craft, just because it doesn’t give her a certificate and doesn’t give her a braid. She doesn’t think ‘the likes of her’ have the right to have more than her work. She believes that no dwarf ‘worth his salt’ would pursue her. How can I convince her that she’s wrong?” Dwalin dropped his hands he had used to make air quotes and pushed his empty tankard away with a heavy sigh. “I cannot. It’s a conclusion she has to come to on her own.”

“But she’s wrong,” Bofur said, throwing a stubborn look at the King of the Iron Hills, who’s eyebrows rose in incredulity. “Lots of dwarrow don’t have a craft. Not one of choice anyway, but one that pays their bills and supports their families. By the sounds of it you’re all educated according to your station, which is fair enough. But you’ve also been able to attain your Masteries in a craft that called you. I’m a miner just because I’ve more stone sense than others. I’m not overly fond of the work but as the stone connects me with our Maker I’ve long accepted my calling. By choice I’m a tinker. It makes for better coin and it brings me together with people, which I enjoy. Same with Bifur when his injury didn’t let him continue as a soldier. He’s never learned Warcraft or the fancy ways of battle, even though he’s good at it, which he has proven as he’s fought and bled for his various Kings. But give him a piece of wood and he’s happy - and you know he’s good at it - making more money with that than with anything else. By choice that’s his craft, even though he doesn’t have a braid nor a certificate to show for it. Miss Oifa is skilled in her work. She’s not just a laundry maid, nor a cleaner, nor a clothes mender. She’s all of it. And she’s good at it. Dori says her stitches are exceptional, he’d hire her on the spot. It takes great skill to be an expert in all of her duties. I couldn’t do it. None at this table could do it just like that ... meaning no offence,” he added, giving a slight bow from where he was seated, suddenly aware who he was talking to.

“None taken,” Thorin said with a smirk. “I know well how complex her work is. And I am well aware how important the umzâr are to the smooth running of my mountain. But that doesn’t change the fact that _she_ does not see it that way. To Miss Oifa her work is low, demeaning even. Something to be done in the background and worthy only to be hidden away, not to be spoken of.” His expression turned serious. “What’s more though, she takes pride in it regardless, and the effort she goes to for our visitors is second to none. They lack nothing and she goes to great lengths to have them housed not only in comfort and luxury befitting their stations but also make them feel at home. There was fruit, nuts and green wreaths for Thranduil’s delegation recently, blankets with horses stitched on them and our best pale ale in elaborate flagons for King Fengel’s emissary, a selection of ancient shields, extra weapon’s stands and makarbulgaihu for the envoy from the Grey Mountains and balb’urs for the Stiffbeards, and Bard finds himself surrounded with tapestries depicting everything to do with archery as well as tidbits of sweet pastries and even silk ribbons and needlework materials when eldest daughter joins him. Our guests are more than comfortable, which makes them much more ... accommodating during negotiations.”

“Aye,” Balin nodded, looking pleased. “It is one thing to show off the wealth of the Kingdom, and there is no denying its riches when walking our halls. But we all know that travels and politics can be quite taxing. Being able to return to one’s guest quarters and feel a measure of home can make all the difference during the discussions the next day. It has been commented on by more than one that they thoroughly enjoyed their stay. Which has not happened before ... the changes in the umzâr’s azlâdu.”

Thorin looked at Dwalin. “While her devotion to her work is admirable, I fear she may soon find out that the other umzâr might not necessarily share that sentiment to the same degree, now that they are well taken care of and have some rights. They will not think their work as umzâr something to be aspiring towards for the rest of their lives. Soon they will desire more. And it will rattle her greatly.”

Dwalin raised his brows, looking questioningly from his best friend to his brother. He agreed with Thorin’s statement, but he couldn’t help but feel there was more to it than just theoretical ramblings.

“She gave Ori Ovdari’s diaries, to dry them after they were found in that pit, remember?” Balin began his explanation. “Well, she also gave him the permission to copy them, since they are a part of Erebor’s history. Ori did that and, being the book brain he is, now had a rather good understanding about Ovdari’s life and work under Thror. There are a few passages in the diary – while not complaints as such – are comments that indicate that not all was rosy in his azlâdu. It appears that the outcome of some council meetings left him rather … dissatisfied. I’ve asked Ori to crosscheck the council minutes from that time. We’ll see what he discovers. But I fear Thorin is right,” Balin continued. “A day off and a very modest pay are more than most have ever received in their life. They will like the freedom it gives them, together with a newfound pride and a sense of self-worth. Soon what they have now won’t be enough.”

“Surely they wouldn’t be that ungrateful,” Bofur exclaimed, looking aghast.

Balin shrugged, unfazed. “Such is the nature of free folk. The taste of freedom is sweet. Having rights and some riches is liberating. If not repressed and not in fear for their life and their sanity folk often aspires for more than they have. It’s only natural. It’s what makes all peoples thrive. And even if their demands are modest it will cause strife for the mountain, put strain on their work. I wager Miss Oifa won’t be expecting it and therefore she won’t be prepared for it when issues begin piling up on her desk, since she’s the first point of contact for her umzâr. If fear her quiet reserve will be thoroughly tested.”

Dwalin frowned deeply. He didn’t like the sound of it, not one bit.

Dain nodded thoughtfully. “Balin’s right. It may have been enough to work for the kingdom's glory under Thror, but that was a long time ago. Times have changed. And you say even then things might have been amiss for Old Ovdari. Be sure to let me know when you find out and it’s something that benefits my kingdom also.”

Thorin lowered his head briefly in assent.

“You’re a fool if you don’t make your interest known to her soon, Dwalin,” Dis commented, addressing Dwalin, shaking her head at him, “Before things potentially go down the hill.”

“Then I am a fool,” Dwalin replied harshly, making them all flinch, “It’s none of your business regardless.” He clambered to his feet. “All of you,” he bellowed, “Stay out my affairs. And hers.” And he turned and stalked off, leaving them sitting to exchange meaningful glances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> umzâr: workers  
> Khazâd: Dwarrow  
> azlâdu: dominion  
> Izrikruk: Master  
> Makarbulgaihu – fried wings (traditional Grey Mountain dish made of bat wings)  
> Balb’urs – Icefire (strong drink from the Stiffbeards)
> 
> King Fengel of Rohan is the father of Thengel, who will be the father of Théoden, the one we know of LotR


	15. How to please Mahal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oifa tries to understand her purpose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are getting there ...
> 
> This chapter is a bit on the shorter side, but the next one is rather long and together they would have been just tooooooo much :)

= - = - =

 

Sleep eluded you the night after your meeting with two Kings. And the night after.

What had Dwalin said? _There is so much more to a person than just their craft - You are selling yourself short - Which makes you all the more special_.

And how his eyes had bored into yours! A world full of emotion and thoughts hidden behind the deep grey.

_Mahal!_

For the first time in your life it didn’t help to throw yourself into your work; it only left you bone tired but with your mind still reeling. No matter how often you replayed King Dain’s and Dwalin’s words in your head the intense look from blue eyes and grey eyes just did not want to stop swirling through your head. Because they were _wrong_. They had to be! You _were_ nothing special. You never _did_ anything special. Your only strength was the willingness to work hard, to give every task your all, but wasn’t that how Mahal made all his dwarrow?

And it certainly wasn’t enough that you were as foolish as Dain and Dwalin to think that any dwarf would be interested in you! Your whole existence would ever only be dedicated to serving the glory of the Kingdom of Erebor.

Not the glory of Oifa.

And although you were rather convinced about your point of view, the whole situation left you confused, and with a feeling that you were well out of your depth.

You desperately missed your parents; they would be able to give you advice, they would _understand_.

Your head pounded and you rubbed your forehead, before getting up from behind your desk and walking over to the side table, pouring yourself some water front the crystal water jug. That would help, surely, and then you could focus on your chores for today once more.

You gulped the drink down and went back to work, namely writing your azlâdu’s monthly report for Lord Balin.

The headache didn’t go away, however, prompting you to shove said report aside with a frustrated groan and going through the piles of notes and letters that arrived with various runners as the morning progressed.

The first letter you read was from one Ewind, a Master Gem-cutter, who informed you very politely and respectfully about his wishes to take young Flíri from the umzâr into his service as apprentice. They had met when Flíri visited Master Ewind’s shop on his day off several weeks ago and the two soon found themselves in conversation. Master Ewind wrote that he judged the young dwarf as amicable, keen and talented. He had agreed to let him help on some small tasks and it had now transpired that gem-cutting was young Flíri’s heart craft. Master Ewind informed you that he was more than happy to present his proffer in person, to make reassurances for the lad’s wellbeing and go over Flíri’s contract with you to make sure all was in order, that his note now was merely a courtesy to make his intentions known and give you a chance to summon him to your office at a for you convenient time, preferable together with Flíri, so the lad as well could explain his wish to leave the umzâr.

With a sigh you realized that this day was not going to seize to be a challenge and reached for the next parchment on the pile.

Underneath Master Ewind’s letter was a note from Erebor’s Military Office that informed you that four dwarrow from the umzâr had succeeded in the open trials and secured themselves a place amongst Erebor’s recruits. Trials were open to every and all dwarrow no matter their station and birth and being picked was a high honour so you certainly didn’t begrudge the four umzâr their good fortune. You did wonder though if Dwalin was aware. Briefly you thought you could ask him, only to remember that you were trying to ban him from your mind, thus dismissing that ridiculous notion.

The headache certainly did not improve.

You dark musings were interrupted by Glōa, who entered with a curtsy after a brief knock on the doorframe. As inviting and good the open door policy was, its downside was without a doubt that there was no way of hiding. You forced yourself to smile despite the dull throbbing behind your eyeballs.

The dam skipped into the room with a smile as wide and blinding as you imagined the sun glare in the Harad desert to be.

“My friend,” you said, keeping your voice deliberately low and quiet in the hope that it would inspire the same from the dam.

It didn’t work as Glōa squeaked and launched herself into your arms. “Oh, Oifa, I am sooo happy!”

Settling the excited dam in a chair and outfitting her with a cup of tea you by and by heard the tale of the changes in her life: of the dwarf she had met in the Great Hall during the repass reception and who turned out to be smitten with her - and she with him. After meeting him on a regular basis when her time allowed it he now had offered his courtship bead. “I just wanted to let you know,” Glōa gushed, giddy with joy, “Because naturally I won’t be staying with the umzâr once I’m married.”

_Naturally_.

You understood, of course you did. Meeting the dwarf of her life - of course Glōa should make sure to hold on to him. He sounded like the lovely sort, you figured, listening to Glōa’s enthusiastic laudations. “Oh, Oifa, he is so wonderful, you’ll see, you’ll have to come to visit often.”

You just about stopped yourself from already making excuses, because how would you be able to do _anything_ when you’ll likely be the one to take over Glōa’s shifts? But you bit your tongue and smiled and said yes and congratulated.

Once Glōa was gone and you went to sit behind your desk once more you couldn’t hold back the groan of despair that escaped you. “I am losing people,” you whispered to yourself, honestly evaluating your situation. “They all leave without regret and once they are gone they won’t look back for even one second. To them, the azlâdu means _nothing_.”

It was an utterly sobering, gut wrenchingly true assessment.

What’s more: it was a logic development, one that you should have seen coming.

But you hadn’t. And it left you feeling like a fool.

You long sat in silence, eyes staring into nothing.

There had been no new umzâr arriving in the azlâdu for some time. Not since the Gatemaster had been released from his duties and sent from Erebor in disgrace. The azlâdu was just functioning, with everyone having their one day off every seven days. And with six umzâr gone in a manner of weeks, chances were that you’d be losing more soon, and then what?

Feeling very deflated and unable to gather your thoughts you nevertheless pulled your report for Lord Balin closer and in a burst of grim determination finished it swiftly by keeping it rather blunt and to the point, sending it off without even reading it once more.

Then you went to the laundry to check whether the recently fixed pipes were holding up and not causing another massive flooding. The rest of the day went by in a blur, leaving you with a drifting, aimless sort of feeling. There was a new delivery of replacement clothing from Lord Dori, an assortment of work caps, aprons, gloves and boots. Since you didn’t feel particularly hungry and had no desire to meet anyone in the umzâr’s hall for the midday meal you went to the mending rooms and spent several hours fixing holes in linen, wondering for the umpteenth time how people managed to get holes in pillow cases. After a shift of glass orb cleaning it was evening and you volunteered yourself to dust and polish the various now empty council chambers. It was well past midnight when you took a plate of hard boiled eggs and buttered toast to your room, forcing yourself to eat despite your lack of appetite.

Idly turning your new hand bound leather book around in your hands you stared into the flames of your hearth, tracing the embossed patterns on the cover with your fingers. Rytas was the name of the dwarf that owned this particular leather shop in the markets, as he had kept telling you most insistently while he pulled half of his shop’s display off the shelves to show you. The dwarf was nice enough, but his persistence to keep you in his shop for as long as possible made you feel very uncomfortable and a little annoyed. He would be about your age, you guessed, with nice dark brown hair and a well-groomed beard. Rytas was just a bit taller than you, and rather slim, although his hands were large, strong and calloused from his work. He _was_ a nice dwarf. But he was lacking _presence_. The kind of presence a certain other dwarf possessed so excessively.

You sighed, opening the book at a random page. It served you as a diary, similar to what Ovdari had used to write down so many details about his work in the mountain.

_Erebor is home to all of us._

That’s what you had written some months ago, after a long walk through the mountain on one of your first ever free days, when you had been filled with a strange mix of emotions: gratitude, warmth and a nearly overwhelming feeling of _belonging_.

It was true, of course: Erebor was home to many dwarrow, dwarrow of all walks of life, no matter their upbringing or background.

And a home needed to be tended to and maintained and _cleaned_.

From personally seeing to the Royal Wing you knew that the Durins and the Company were keeping their private rooms in rather immaculate order. As a group they took care of their households collectively. It didn’t surprise you, with both Fárni and Dis being very effective in organizing and managing everything around them it was a trait of theirs that obviously reflected in their private life as well as in their public one. Apart from the periodic airing and brushing of furs and carpets there barely was anything for the umzâr to do apart from the odd tidying up and a mopping at the end of every other day; even ash duty had been reduced to the full buckets just having to be picked up at the doors overnight, the owners of the respective hearths cleaning them out themselves. No, the King’s family and the Company had no real need for the umzâr in their private homes, although you still made sure to keep an eye on their shared rooms and the King’s private office.

Most other noble families and some of the Guild Masters employed their own maids and servants who took care of their personal homes, but as soon as they ventured out they, too, were able to reap the benefits of the umzâr’s work, walking on clean thoroughfares and enjoying Erebor’s green stone in its polished magnificence in perfectly illuminated halls.

As did everyone else who frequented public spaces, had use of the laundry service, enjoyed sitting near the famous fountains, sparkling in their silvery glory - indeed the whole of Erebor’s populace benefited from the umzâr’s work, regardless of the level they resided in.

And any who had dealings with official guests or business partners could relax in the knowledge that they would be taken care of and pampered. After days of negotiations in the pristine guild, meeting halls and council chambers they could enjoy elegant banquets and frivolous festivities without even having to waste a thought about their preparation or clean-up after. That was all done by the umzâr, and until recently without so much as recognition, let alone a thank you.

Yes, even though most dwarrow in the mountain considered Erebor their home you knew that few would share your opinion about working together to keep the mountain clean. The less well off because they had enough on their plate and the rich because the very thought would be as foreign to them as the Elven language was to you.

Restful sleep just didn’t want to come; the problem kept churning around in your head for the remainder of the already short night.

By morning you found Lord Balin’s note on your desk, with a request to back-up your report with ideas and suggestions to remedy the situation.

You sighed.

If only it were that simple.

Lack of sleep and the added pressure of having to come up with something, anything, for Lord Balin was probably to blame when you were even more quiet than usually while sitting in a committee meeting, discussing ways of increasing the number of beds in the Guest Wing, as it appeared that apart from esteemed guests and foreign dignitaries there would also be an influx of private visitors, as someone thought it a splendid idea to combine Durin’s Day festivities with a wedding, of all things. That someone appeared to be Lord Gvestur, because when you tentatively commented that it would be nigh impossible for the umzâr to tend to more guests than you already were supposed to and that space was limited, you were brushed off rather brusquely by said Lord. You knew him by sight only. He had never spoken to you, never even looked at you, he also had not ever bothered to sit in on a meeting of this particular committee, which was in charge of taking care of hosting duties and held representatives of the treasury, guards, kitchens, stables and you. Certainly, as a noble Lord of Erebor he had every right to sit in if it so took his fancy - maybe he simply followed the King’s example who had graced you all with his presence on a number of occasion, Dwalin in tow, and no, you were _not_ thinking about the pull of the warrior’s eyes -  but it was telling that Gvestur was doing so solely to see his own private affairs catered for. Which, to your knowledge and in your opinion was not the purpose of this committee, nor that of the umzâr. 

No doubt lack of sleep also was to blame for you to bristle at his treatment and dare to speak those thoughts out loud. Lord Gvestur’s glare nearly made you lose your nerve. He completely ignored you afterwards, continuing as if you were air. Every word he said was a command, not a request, and he dismissed your concerns, no matter that they were shared by the others at the table, as you could tell by the exchange of glances amongst them.

The dwarf made you feel as Na- a dwarf with no name had made you feel: worthless, stupid and weak. The anger and frustration about that realization left you highly strung and unusually temperamental when you made your way back to your office.

It irked you to no end that Lord Gvestur, a merchant by trade and not only immensely rich but also immensely powerful, would see himself above common sense and above humility. You couldn’t help but think that if the noble Lord truly wanted to have those visitors to see his daughter wed in style that maybe he should at least assist one way or the other to accommodate them if he could not do so in his private quarters.

But Lord Gvestur, like many of the other noble families, seemed to look at his life in Erebor as one of birthright, not one of honour and privilege. You shook your head on your way back to your office, mumbling under your breath, ignoring the concerned looks of Jarspur’s guards accompanying you.

The noble families were proud of their noble ancestry and their riches and the crafts they practiced and used to increase their own wealth influence, and rightly so. But it appeared that for the majority of them their own fortunes came first, Erebor second, although they were quick enough to boast about living in the greatest dwarrow kingdom of Arda.

You returned to your office, feeling rather agitated and impatient, only to slow your steps at the sight of Lord Bombur and his eldest son Baldur sitting on the waiting chairs in the hallway. Jarspur nodded at you from his spot at the door in greeting. The old guard’s eyes flew to flicking fingers slightly behind you and you knew that one of the guards that had accompanied you relayed to Jarspur that there had been some sort of incident at the meeting which had left you upset. Iglishmêk, the guard’s and miner’s sign language was useful, no doubt. It was also one you were not familiar with, but you knew Lord Bombur was, thanks to the long injury of his cousin, Lord Bifur.

Jarspur cleared his throat. “Miss Oifa, I have already informed Lord Bombur that your schedule for today is full and that he might have to prepare himself to be turned away at this hour. Unless something has changed ...?” The guard trailed off, looking at you meaningfully.

It nearly brought you to tears that Jarspur so very clearly signaled that he had your back. It was something you still were not used to, and up until now you hadn’t realized how much his sturdy support bolstered your confidence. It was much appreciated that he would be willing to help you to have a way out if you didn’t feel like listening to whatever reason brought the Head of the Royal Kitchens and his eldest son to you.

“I apologize for ambushing you in such a manner, but my son has not given me a moment’s peace in this matter. Impatience is the prerogative of youth,” Lord Bombur smiled at you with an expression that was apologetic, amused and exasperated, “And I confess I am putty in my children’s hands. But I would not wish to add to your already strenuous day.”

You couldn’t help but warm to him immediately. “It is a parent’s prerogative to be putty.” Looking at Jarspur gratefully with a small smile you gestured for Lord Bombur and his son to come into your office.

Once you were seated behind your desk and the two dwarves in the comfortable chairs and settled with a cup of tea you folded your hands on the white marble desktop and looked at them expectantly. “What can I do for you?”

Bombur bowed his head. “Thank you for understanding my predicament and for agreeing to see us at this hour. Maybe Baldur should explain himself, now that he successfully made it into your office.” Bombur gave his son a little exasperated glare, but there was a twinkle in his eyes.

The young dwarf sat up straight, ignoring his Adad’s gentle teasing, and looked at you. “I am ending my second year of apprenticeship with the glass blowers and am planning my master work as journeyman. Having worked on the glass orbs for the golden light for some time I am thinking on dedicating my time to improving the process of how they are made, how they are filled, cleaned and refilled. For that reason I was hoping to gain your permission to be included in shifts in the light chambers for the next year or so. I feel that if I work there it will give me insight that will help me to understand the full scope of the task I have set myself.”

You frowned. “I applaud your ambition. And your idea certainly sounds intriguing. I am pleased you are interested in such a mundane task as working in the light chambers. But I am also surprised you have taken up glassblowing,” you confess. “Did you not wish to follow your Adad’s craft?” Lord Bombur was an exceptional cook and ran Erebor’s kitchens much as a Fabarâl would run his troops. What’s more, he was so very obviously completely in his element when surrounded by food, which indicated to you that he truly found his calling. It made little sense to you that the lad wouldn’t want to follow in his Adad’s footsteps and take over Erebor’s kitchens at some stage.

“By Mahal, no!” Baldur exclaimed, looking aghast at the very idea.

You frowned even more, taken aback by the vehement reaction.

Bombur chuckled at your expression. “My learned craft is mining, Miss Oifa,” he explained, “and while it is no doubt as honourable as any, and equally steeped in tradition and knowledge, it is not one I have ever enjoyed. Mining has ever been the craft of our family because we are blessed with a stone sense that is stronger than that of the average dwarrow. However, it is also a dark, dirty, dangerous occupation and Ered Luin offered little other prospects. When my cousin, brother and I answered Thorin’s call to reclaim Erebor it was with the hope that the quest’s success would give us the chance to better the lives of our family, to give my children a better future. I was the Company’s cook on the quest and when Thorin offered me to run Erebor’s kitchens I didn’t hesitate to take it. Cooking is not my craft, but it is my passion.”

“But Bofur is still working as a miner,” you said weakly, hardly believing your ears.

Bombur chuckled again. “Aye, he does. He thinks of mining as I do, however, he also believes Mahal gave us our stone sense for a reason and cannot find it in him to abandon the mines completely. Naturally, being the Head of the Miner’s Guild he has plenty of chances to spend his days away from the deep levels of the mountain, and even venture outside with Bifur and his toys. It is a good balance for him and,” he leaned forward a bit and winked at you, “to compare Erebor’s mines with the ones in Ered Luin is like comparing Dwalin’s axes with one of the wooden toy axes Bifur makes for the children of Dale.”

You blushed at the mention of _that_ dwarf, avoiding Bombur’s oddly playful gaze and lifting your cup to take a big gulp of your tea, nearly scolding your mouth.

“I have been going to the mines with irak'adad Bofur since when I was old enough to walk,” Baldur added with a frown. “I hear the stone just fine, and I also enjoy working with wood, as Bifur taught me. I am not good with cooking, but my bread is very good.” The young dwarf looked down thoughtfully for a moment. Then his face lit up. “But glass blowing is the craft that calls me.”

Swallowing, you felt touched by his earnestness. “You are very fortunate to be able to gain knowledge in so many areas and discover a talent for them too, by the sounds of it. And you are even more fortunate to be able to have the choice to pick what your heart settles on the most. It is a rare thing, and truly remarkable.” You felt happy for the lad, who had the beginnings of a beard, that one day would rival his Adad’s.

Yet, at the same time, you felt sad, and it did fill you with shame. Because how could feel sad for yourself and your lack of choice when you were younger in the face of the positivity and determination of this serious and resolved lad?

It was _petty_.

Baldur frowned again. “It has always been our way, in Ered Luin. Amad says it’s something our folk continued since the days of old.

You had the distinct feeling that you now had lost the thread of the conversation and looked at Lord Bombur for help.

The rotund dwarf smiled knowingly and hurried to oblige. “My wife’s family had a baker’s shop in Ered Luin, so food was always in our family, one way or another. We are Broadbeam, and when our ancestors held the great city of Gabilgathol in the Blue Mountains long ago it is said to have been the norm for all young dwarrow to undergo training in different areas of the mountain,” he explained. “It was called Id’adshân. Of course it was different then. The city was alive and sprawling, full of families and young dwarrow. It was a matter of pride for all to attend the Id’adshân, no matter their background. In fact, there are still stories that tell of a struggle to deal with the sheer amount of dwarrow that needed to find placements in the various sections of the mountain city. Times have changed. Khazâd are not that fruitful any more, my family being the very blessed exception. Now that young ones generally are much rarer there would no longer be enough to continue that tradition of old. Not in Ered Luin, and certainly not in Erebor.”

You blinked. It sounded like something from a fairytale. You’d heard of Gabilgathol, of course. But you were no learned historian and apart from the fact that the ancient city was famous for its armour and weaponry your knowledge was not worth mentioning. You certainly had not known about Id’adshân.

With a sigh you looked at Bombur, deeply impressed. “It speaks for you, Mylord, that you keep to traditions and raise your children to have such a variety of skills, and that you have risked so much to give them a better future.” You nodded at Baldur. “I will gladly roster you for work in the glass chambers, and will make sure to be there with you, at least in the beginning, for it is dirty and unpleasant work that carries its own dangers. I would not want you to come to harm there while attempting to figure out ways to make life easier for all of us.”

Baldur‘s face split into a wide grin and he bowed slightly from where he was sitting. “Thank you, Miss Oifa, I am grateful.”

Bombur beamed at you and reached across the table to clasp your hand. “You have my thanks, Miss Oifa, truly.”

After they had left with many more words of appreciation and thanks - Bombur nearly busting with pride for his firstborn - you found yourself behind your desk once more, but this time a surge of emotion had your eyes swimming with tears.

To hear such good and honest values. To hear that there were dwarrow who believed in having a variety of skills instead of one grand one was not a bad thing. And to hear a young dwarf thoroughly grasp that simple truth better than many, certainly better than you.

_There is so much more to a person than just their craft._ There was no denying that Dwalin’s words had deeply unsettled you. There was also no denying that you now could not shake the feeling that he may be right.

Because wasn’t that true for everyone? For Baldur?

For Dwalin? He was born and raised as a Lord, he was a Master Weapon’s Smith and a Master in the Art of Warcraft. Yet the dwarf was also so much _more_ than that, if the depth of those deep grey eyes and all you had seen of him these past six months were anything to go by.

_You are selling yourself short_.

Mayhap you were. All those years you had locked away the regret and the sadness that you would never be able to follow the path of learned dwarrow, one of apprenticeship and eventual Mastery. You knew you had the talent to create with your hands. But after your Adad’s death you had to bury not only him but also any hope of getting the chance to explore that avenue. And more so when you lost the rest of your family. Moving to Erebor had been a desperate attempt to pull yourself out of a hole of seemingly lifelong ineptitude. Only to be falling even deeper.

But now it dawned on you that you had it wrong all along. You were not only a plain and unskilled dam. You _knew_ things and you had _skills,_ thanks to the talents Mahal had given you and the circumstances you had been presented with in your life. It may not have resulted in a Mastery bead but you were working to bring honour to the race of Khazâd and to your home. You were more than just an umzâr, even more than a Marshal of the Court of Erebor. You were Oifa, the daughter of loving parents, the sister of a caring brother, the very product of their thoughtful and attentive upbringing. You were Oifa, who could look at herself in the looking glass and knew without a doubt that she lived her life to the best of her abilities. And at each juncture of her life she made decision she would make again in exactly the same way, were she faced with the same situation again. The Oifa you looked at would not balk or falter just because she had no craft to call her own. She would proudly carry on, standing on her own two feet and hold her head up high.

It was not about not letting down the umzâr, or the kingdom, or the King. Or Dis, or Bofur, or Farni or Dori. Or Dwalin. It was about doing the best you could do.

_The Maker gave us our love for crafts to find ways to bring honour to all dwarrow._

_Erebor is my home now. I use my talents for its benefit._

_There is so much more to a person than just their craft._

All of it was correct.

And finally, you felt you understood.

Determined you picked up the quill and began writing your second report to Lord Balin.

 

= - = - =

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fabarâl - General - (“forward-mover”) - Commands each gangbuh (about 500 soldiers)  
> Gabilgathol (Khuzdul: gabil-great gathol-fortress) Belegost (Sindarin: great city) - lay in the north central part of the Ered Luin, guarding one of the only passes through the mountain range. It was home to Khazâd in the First Age. It is said to have been founded sometime during the Years of the Trees. At the end of the First Age, Belegost was ruined in the War of Wrath, when the hosts of Valinor and of Morgoth met in Beleriand, subsequently tearing the land asunder and changing its landscape. The majority of dwarrow that survived the war fled from Gabilgathol to Khazad-dûm.  
> Id’adshân – the Service  
> irak'adad - uncle
> 
> As always Khuzdul from the Dwarrowscholar plus some word-creations of mine and canon from Master Tolkien's verse.  
> If you feel like submerging yourself in visuals about Middle Earth and/or this story: https://www.pinterest.com.au/cuptivate/


	16. Falling into Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oifa makes suggestions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, another chapter. This has been edited to an inch of its life. Then Christmas began looming and while that is a good thing (as it means I’m earning money) it did delay my writing. There’s only so much a brain can handle. But here it is, it was a really hard chapter so please be kind (not like you aren’t always anyway). And as you can see, we’re getting to the end. One more chapter after this.

= . = . =

 

 

You took your time getting dressed for the monthly Full Council meeting. Lord Balin had informed you weeks ago that as Marshal of the Court you were now a part of it. It hadn’t surprised you but it still made you terribly nervous to be sitting in the largest council chamber not only in the presence of the King, Princes Dis and most members of the Company, but also all Guild Masters as well as the Lords of Erebor’s nobility.

Jarspur had accompanied you this morning and you were glad to have arrived early, enabling you to slide into your seat between Lord Dori and Lord Bofur before the majority of the Guild Masters and Lords arrived, letting you avoid having to curtsy and bow yourself through the throng of them. By now you knew some Guild Masters by name and by face, and they looked kindly upon you, but you couldn’t help finding the noble Lords still most intimidating.

Bofur regaled you with easy small talk and Dori complimented you on your choice of dress for the day. The Royal Tailor’s critical eye took in the dark green silk skirt and front laced bodice with the rich embroidery and detailed beading. The white, long sleeved blouse had gold trimmings which were repeated around the lacings and you had braided your hair particularly neatly and woven wire strands with tiny garnets into it, repeating the colour of the exquisite beadwork on the dress. Dori was obviously very pleased with your efforts and patted your hand indulgently when you gushed your gratitude for his work, this being by far the most elaborate dress he had made for you up to date.

Your laudations were cut short when the King arrived, with Dwalin at his heel. Without meaning to your eyes darted to the tall warrior as soon as everyone was seated once more after giving the King his due reference. Sure enough, he caught your gaze. There was a small incline of his head and the tiniest twitch in the corner of his mouth, and his grey eyes glinted and looked at you warmly, roaming your face and figure. A jolt of exhilaration shot through your body, unexpectedly, and you felt heat rise from your rapidly beating heart to your face, knowing that he took note of every detail of your appearance. Lowering your head to hide your blush you tried to focus on the proceedings.

Which was hard.

Because the monthly Full Council meeting tended to be long. Very long.

Lord Balin would read out the agenda, listing points the Royal Advisor deemed fit to address, and Lord Ori would hand out copies of it to everyone present. Considering Dís already dealt with the majority of issues that were arising between the guilds the agenda tended to be still quite long. Then they would go over each talking point, allowing those involved to give an explanation or voice their opinion. Occasionally Lord Balin would interfere and make sure that everyone stayed on topic and that they were moving towards an aim. Dís or Glóin would ask questions and request clarifications often and when everyone said their bit Thorin would have the final word on a course of action. His decisions and orders were wise; often you could not help but admire how he managed to see through the complexity of some issues. And how he managed to see past some of the flustering of the Lords who - by large - seemed to have no function other than to object to anything and everything anyone suggested that brought on the slightest bit of change or appeared to curb their influence. There was a lot of eye rolling and a lot of grumbling on occasion, sometimes there were loud outbursts and during the last meeting Dwalin even had thrown both a Lord and a Guild Master out the door by the scruffs of their necks when they were incapable of keeping some semblance of dignified order and began cursing each other and their respective families, even reaching for their weapons.

You wouldn’t deny that you were glad Dwalin was present.

He was rather impressive. Your heart had been in your throat for the rest of the day after you had a front row seat to watch the muscles in his arms bulge and ripple when he shoved the offending dwarves out the room in a flash, nearly bursting the short-sleeved scale-mail armour he wore. You couldn’t quite stop your thoughts from going in the direction of vaguely guessing what his chest and shoulder muscles would look like when they were bulging and rippling. It made for some rather vivid daydreams, and you only managed to ban them into the realm of fantasy when you submerged yourself into cold water in your bath several times and held your breath until you came up spluttering and coughing.

Not once since you had been required to attend the monthly Full Council meeting had anything regarding the umzâr or your azlâdu been on the agenda, much to your relief. Today, however, as the last point on Lord Ori’s list it read ‘umzâr: drop in numbers; evaluate reasons and discuss options to increase them’.

_Well then._

You sighed inwardly and your stomach clenched in dread. You had hoped Lord Balin would not ask you to repeat the suggestions you provided in his report to him out loud in front of everyone.

No, who were you kidding? That was precisely what you would be asked to be doing and you had known it the moment you dipped your quill into the ink well.

Nevertheless, your stomach bubbled with nerves.

The droning continued for what seemed like endless hours. Two short breaks did nothing for your anxiety and by the time the meeting came to the last point on the agenda it was early afternoon.

“Miss Oifa,” Lord Balin began and you tried not to sink deeper into your chair, “Your report states that your azlâdu has had a recent change in numbers. Could you please elaborate on that?” He smiled kindly at you and gave you an encouraging nod.

You nodded, straightened your spine and clasped your hands together in front of you, focusing on a point in the middle of the large council table and taking a deep breath, trying to speak without hyperventilating. “This past month I have lost six umzâr as they chose to explore other avenues than the continued maintenance of Erebor. With no new umzâr being assigned to the azlâdu since the- ... the removal of a ... a nameless dwarf our number is now at the bare minimum of what is needed to continue a full roster. While it is not yet a problem, I fear it will become one sooner or later, if the trend continues.”

“The umzâr that have left,” the Head of the Forgemaster Guild inquired, “Where did they go?”

You remembered him from the inspection of the chimney flutes and inclined your head to him respectfully. “One is getting married, four have been accepted as recruits in the army and one has begun an apprenticeship with Master Ewind of the Gem-cutters.”

“And how many new umzâr were assigned to your azlâdu before ... the change in leadership?” a portly, stern looking dwarf asked, Lord Tukír by name; he had been present at the Hearing so many months ago. You knew now that he owned several trading caravans and had a noble pedigree as long as the River Running. He also had a rather hands-on kind of air, despite his solid and richly decorated appearance.

“It was an average of three every two months, Mylord,” you said respectfully, “The number has steadily declined over the years. When I arrived in Erebor six years ago I was assigned to the umzâr’s azlâdu with fourteen others.”

That caused a few mumbles.

“It is a natural development, I guess,” Dís said thoughtfully, “that with Erebor reclaimed the great years of wandering of our people have come to an end and as they are largely settled now there are just not many new arriving dwarrow available any more, naturally making the number of dwarrow available to work as umzâr even smaller.”

“Indeed, your Highness,” you said, “And I fear that despite receiving a wage and a day off every seven days might not be enough to hold the umzâr that currently work in the azlâdu. They will move on if they find another occupation, not once looking back.”

Lord Gvestur made his presence known by sniffing disdainfully. “Since when do the umzâr get wages?”

“They do since the King decreed it,” Lord Glóin said curtly, eyes narrowed and firmly fixed on the noble dwarf, clearly not inviting any more questions.

Unfortunately, the ancient dwarf seemed immune against these kinds of hints because he asked: “Where does the money come from?” His arrogant tone was borderline condescending - considering he was in the presence of said King - and you now firmly placed him into your internal list of dwarrow you truly disliked.

Dís cleared her throat. “As the umzâr’s work is to the benefit all of Erebor the Royal Treasury is shouldering that cost. It is, all things considered, a small amount to pay for their contribution to the kingdom.”

“Please!” Gvestur scoffed, obviously not noticing how the King’s posture stiffened and his forehead furrowed, “It’s not like the umzâr contribute anything to the wealth of the kingdom like let’s say the smiths or the miners ... or the merchants.” You now knew that he did own a large percentage of all the silk trade coming into the mountain and most warehouses around the markets.

“I think it is just fair to have any dwarrow in the kingdom paid for the work they are doing,” Bofur spoke up next to you. “To have them taken care of in case of illness or injury, see to their general wellbeing and health.”

“Naturally you would,” you thought Gvestur said, although you might have been wrong as he muttered it into his thinning beard - but then Dori tutted so you probably had heard correctly.

Bombur’s expression darkened at the slight of his brother and his family, and he glared at the Lord, but he said nothing, letting the implied criticism at the humble background of the Ur’s slide.

“The issue is complicated,” Balin cut in, a steely edge in his diplomatic voice. “Most of the umzâr are very young, many barely of age. They have no family and no guidance. Until recently they have been living in oppression and misery. As her Highness rightly stated: with our wandering years truly over there are likely no more dwarrow coming to settle in Erebor that could be filling positions in the umzâr’s azlâdu. And with the umzâr’s care now in the most capable hands of Miss Oifa many will feel the urge to spread their wings. It is only natural.”

“Maybe they just shouldn’t be allowed to leave,” another noble Lord you didn’t know commented, his nose in the air.

Gvestur nodded eagerly. “Indeed. I don’t see why any umzâr should be able to just abandon their position. They should just be made to stay and serve. Imagine any soldier just quitting their service.” He slapped his flat hand on the stone table for emphasis.

Your stomach lurched at the very idea. There was muttering and, to your relief, quite a bit of head shaking. “We are not Men, who hold their own as slaves with no rights or freedom of choice,” Tukír retorted forcefully, eyeing Gvestur with some disgust. “Even those serving in Erebor’s Defence Forces are free to leave their service if they do so wish. Mahal gave his children the spark to learn, to gather knowledge, to test their skills. I applaud those umzâr that have the courage to follow His call. I understand the trials for the recruits are a hard thing to complete successfully. And a marriage bond is beyond reproach, surely.”

“The point is,” Balin spoke over the din that flared up, “that the azlâdu needs to have enough umzâr to function. If there are not enough hands they cannot fulfil their duties, which will affect the mountain. Miss Oifa has kindly drawn up a list of ideas and suggestions.” He gave a small bow into your direction and smiled encouragingly, his twinkling eyes telling you that he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

You swallowed to get rid of the lump in your throat. “Lord Balin is right,” you began timidly, averting everyone’s eyes. “We just now are enough to keep up with our work. With six umzâr leaving in the near future I already will have to amend the rosters to somehow absorb their loss. If only one more umzâr leaves I fear it will become obvious and one chore or more will not receive the attention it deserves, which will reflect on our dedication to the mountain’s keeping. To prioritize our work would be a logic next step, but in all honesty I wouldn’t know how to decide which chore is more important than the other. Should laundry have preference over mending? Is cleaning the council rooms less important than cleaning the glass orbs for the golden lights? As I see it the only options to continue our work to the level we are now are to either increase our numbers or to decrease our chores.” Your eyes glanced over the room, over the King, the members of the Company that sat opposite you, over Dís and Fárni. They all followed your words with respectful interest. Thorin’s expression gave little away, but the deep frown on his forehead was gone. Balin’s eyes still twinkled - but he already _knew_ your suggestions. Surely he would not ask you to reveal them in this setting if he thought they were too outrageous?

You did not look at Dwalin, even though you could feel his eyes steadily resting on you from across the room.

Clearing your throat you tried to speak a little more confidently now, albeit still cautiously. “As far as decreasing our chores goes the only logic way would be to separate the domestic affairs from the responsibilities that deal with guests and dignitaries, create two completely separate sections. And in terms of increasing our numbers I can only think of introducing something similar to Id’adshân, as it was custom in the Gabilgathol of old. Back then all young dwarrow in the mountain, regardless of birth and rank, were required to absolve time in the different areas of the city, to learn about its runnings and develop skills in all different kinds of works that are needed to keep a large city functioning. Obviously times have changed and Erebor does not nearly have enough young dwarrow to make this work, but one could include the apprentices, or even make it mandatory for every family to spend a certain amount of time per year in the mountain’s service, communal duty if you will, which, I believe, is not unusual in some cities of Men-“

Gvestur startled you when he interrupted you with a loud snort. “That is an utterly ludicrous suggestion,” he said with a contemptuous sneer.

“I cannot say I agree with that sentiment,” Glóin snarled right back at him, ignoring Fárni’s calming hand on his arm.

“To work as a ... a cleaner ... or ... or whatever ... is beneath any of noble birth,” Gvestur exclaimed superciliously, throwing his hands up in the air, several Lords nodding along. “It is ... unsavoury. And demeaning.” Rumbles of agreement came from around him.

The Guild Masters were rather quiet, although you noticed them exchanging weighty looks.

Lord Tukír stroked his beard thoughtfully. “What if the umzâr’s azlâdu simply were dissolved?” he suggested. “Employ dwarrow singularly as washers, cleaners or ... whatever else needs doing.”

Your stomach dropped. _What?_

“If it is difficult to find people doing the work now when there is diversity that gives them some status it will hardly be easier to find any when they are reduced to one task only,” Mistress Dûzla cut in and actually rolled her eyes. The matronly dam was heading the Silversmith’s guild. You had not had any contact with her thus far, but her reputation was one of practicality and no-nonsense. Her rather spectacular silver hair and beard were famously clad in a multitude of silver clasps and beads, making one almost indistinguishable from the other. “And I would think that increasing the umzâr’s wages would only be a short term solution. Wealth, even if small, breeds aspiration.”

Glóin nodded decisively, as did Dís, Balin and Dori, and several others.

“Dissolving the umzâr’s azlâdu is not the way to go,” Balin agreed and you almost let out a sigh of relief. “The amount of work would still be the same. Remember that the umzâr of Erebor are a unique institution, nothing like it exists in other Khazâd dwellings, and so it should remain. It makes no sense to break up the azlâdu to employ dwarrow that currently can be considered highly qualified in their domestic skills into single occupations, in effect devaluating them. It serves neither the mountain, nor them.” The Royal Advisor smiled at you. “Miss Oifa’s suggestion of utilizing the whole populace of Erebor similarly to how Id’adshân was conducted in Gabilgathol has its merit. While it was a long time ago the scheme was widely documented and considered a huge success.”

You could feel your face glowing as hot as coals at the praise and glanced across the table at Bombur, who calmly stroked his beard and gave you a secretive little nod, his expression utterly pleased – and rightly so, it had been his comments that stirred the idea in you after all.

“The idea is no doubt intriguing, in a historic sense,” Dûzla cut in, her tone polite but unimpressed, “Times have changed, however, and Gabilgathol was lost thousands of years ago. No matter what their background, many in the mountain will not embrace it, the historic idea is too abstract, and the suggestion of a mandatory communal service is quite provocative. Miss Oifa,” she said, and your heart skipped a beat at her addressing you directly, “you must have thought how to go about making this idea work. Convince us, convince me.”

Feeling very put on the spot you cleared your throat to buy some time and looked at your hands for a moment, trying to sort your thoughts and feelings and put them into words. “I understand that there will be opposition. There always is when change is needed. The simple fact is that everyone seems glad to have the umzâr and the work we do, even if most don’t actually realize we exist. But it is also a fact that we cannot continue the way we are now indefinitely, it is not feasible. And as things are we run the risk of missing the momentum to change while we are ahead. As Lord Tukír said,” you glanced shyly at the noble dwarf, “Mahal gave his children the spark to learn, to gain knowledge. But I also believe that while Mahal gave most of his children the one craft that calls to their heart to bring honour to the whole race of Khazâd, he also gave us the talent to do well in many other works of life. And what better than to honour him by using his gifts to improve our home, the very stone he has made us from. Erebor is our home now, no matter what part of Arda we came from. It is only right for all of us to work together to do our bit in making life in the mountain the best it can be. As such,” you looked back at Dûzla carefully, ”nobody should consider themselves above the task. Our Maker likes seeing us doing our best, regardless of what it is, and to acknowledge and rise to a challenge. I believe this matter well qualifies.”

When you let your eyes dart around the room you saw a long look pass between Dís and the King. Judging by Her Highness’ warm smile you had not incensed them at least, with your frank words. 

Mistress Dûzla looked slightly stunned, but then she lowered her chin and ran her hand through her beard thoughtfully, her sharp eyes appraising you in a way that made you feel this was the first time she actually _saw_ you.

Lord Gvestur, however, turned towards the King. “Your Majesty, the very idea is preposterous!” He threw you a nasty look. “This ... this-“

“Careful now!” Dwalin boomed from behind the King warningly, giving your stomach a jolt.

“-this _dam_ is clearly very misguided,” Gvestur continued with a forced smile, but his voice was dripping with contempt, “Rambling about Mahal’s will like that. She does not know better, which is understandable, giving her station, Marshal of the Court or not. Erebor’s nobility does not have to appease the Maker by working outside our long honed and traditionally accepted crafts. In fact, our very position is as it is because of the will of Mahal. The likes of us do not do her kind of work. It is simply not done.” He emphasized his words with a decisive nod.

For a moment the room was silent.

Of course you would be the one to break it. “His Majesty has done my kind of work, in his youth,” you said quietly, ignoring the little voice in the back of your head that told you to hold your tongue. “As has Lord Dwalin. And nobody can deny that they are nobility. And even though I personally see to the Royal Quarters there is very little to do because the Royal Family and the Lord Companions keep it rather neat. There is never any mending to be done by the umzâr on any of their clothes. Her Highness makes her own bed. Lord Balin even folds the clothes that go in his hamper.”

Bofur snorted a laugh beside you and when you looked across the table, feeling your face redden, you met Dís’ wide smile. Fárni grinned and when you shyly looked at Balin the corners of his mouth twitched suspiciously. You didn’t look at Thorin, and certainly not at Dwalin, but you could feel the weight of their gaze, and not in a bad way.

Ignoring Gvestur’s huff and muttering from around the table you cleared your throat and gingerly folded your hands before you. “There are, as far as I can see, no other options. The simple fact is that there are barely enough hands to do the work that is required of us. If we cannot find a way to reduce the umzâr’s chores we’ll have to increase the workforce. Since the number of dwarrow migrating to Erebor is inadequate we’ll have to utilize those that are already here. I feel that it’s well achievable to make the tending to Erebor’s daily business a responsibility that is shared by all-”

“There were times when words like that would have earned you a stay in the dungeons. Thror would have never entertained such a farcical concept-“ Gvestur barked, clearly at the end of his noble restraint.

An audible gasp went through the room and an icy chill that rivalled winter storms seemed to cool the air.

You ducked down in your chair when the King’s fist hit the table hard, interrupting the pompous dwarf. _Oh dear._

“Thror is no longer the King of Erebor. And I am not my grandfather. I would not send any of my peoples to the dungeons for putting into words their well formulated ideas for my Kingdom.” Thorin’s voice was low and as unmovable as his very mountain, and dangerous in its tone.

The silence that followed was absolute and fraught with tension. It was a well-known secret that mentioning old King Thror was a sore spot for Thorin. While he surely would have loved his grandfather as any grandson would - your Adad had often spoken about how Thror adored his grandchildren - the mysterious illness that had befallen the old King soon after Thorin’s birth, the subsequent loss of Erebor and the many years of wandering and war would have marked Thorin severely, who had not even been of age when the mountain fell. There were also rumours that he briefly had fallen to the same illness as his grandfather, after Smaug was defeated.

But rumours were one thing. To speak such things out loud in his presence was bordering treason. Lord Gvestur of course had already been on King Thror’s council and never submitted himself to years in exile, living in luxury in the Iron Hills instead before returning to Erebor after Smaug’s demise. The ancient dwarf probably saw himself above such caution.

It was a long while before the King spoke again, slow and measured. “When my grandfather introduced the workforce of the umzâr to Erebor he did so to stop the constant squabble between the various noble houses about whose servants were superior and justified in their continuing oppression of all others in the mountain that wished to use the communal facilities as well, for example the laundry rooms. King Thror assigned Ovdari to find dwarrow willing to work as umzâr and figure out a way to run things smoothly without bias and without the arrogance that came with the perceived status of other servants. Ovdari, who at the time was a young dwarf in an apprenticeship of Ancient Law, had interfered in the increasingly violent confrontations between the servants of noble houses and the common populace numerous times, broken up fights and helped avoid bloodshed. Servants that had been ordered to block entry to the laundry or only allow access to some back wells that were hard to reach. Servants that ordered others around, unchecked by their masters. There also had been the new trend of said servants from the noble houses simply emptying the ash from their fire places down some bridges and mine shafts instead of carrying them all the way to collections points. Ash ended up in the water wells and even in the silver fountain. We also know that dirty dishes were no longer brought back to the kitchens as was the rule, but dumped in the Great Hall, in the guild halls, or kitchen staff was simply ordered to pick them up from the noble homes.” Thorin held up a parchment. “And it goes on. Council rooms and thoroughfares were not cleaned. Whole floors were left in the dark without golden lights. The silver fountains lost their shine. The River Running ran black with ash. No doubt your memory about the pitiful and petty state of things during that time is crystal clear, Gvestur, despite the years that have passed; if not, feel free to read this summary by my grandfather’s own hand. He had enough of the bickering and of the mess. That is why he saw the need to create a work force that among all dwarrow dwellings is unique to Erebor. It took a few years to get the new azlâdu of the umzâr running smoothly, but Ovdari had no shortage of volunteers; it seems everyone was most eager to lend a hand for the greater good of the mountain and give the noble houses a lesson in teamwork and humility. Merchants sent their almost-of-age children and their apprentices, as did the Guilds. They were housed in their own wing, the same that the umzâr occupy today, clothed, fed, paid from the King’s purse. Ovdari did himself proud, earning himself the respect of any and all in the mountain, especially the King’s. All was well for a very long time. But when the King began to ... withdraw ... things became more difficult. Payments were late or forgotten altogether. We know that Ovdari paid his umzâr out of his own pockets several times. The council, in its wisdom, saw no need to fulfil his requests for clothing or food, for maintenance of their quarters or workstations. Naturally, many umzâr left service. Ovdari found himself at the same point as his granddaughter does today: not enough hands to do the work that needed to be done. Unlike Ovdari though she is not alone in her struggles. Because this King and this Council will find a solution for the problem. For the greater good of the whole kingdom.”

Thorin spoke with sincerity and depth and you blinked hard to keep the tears away. He meant it! He meant every word.

You had not known how the azlâdu came to be. And you had not known about Ovdari’s problems - clearly he left those issues out of his personal records. You also had not known that he used his own money to keep his azlâdu running. Yet it didn’t surprise you. You would do exactly the same.

 “The distinct difference between then and today is that Ovdari was Erebor’s Seneschal,” Balin explained further when the King fell quiet, “and as such he was in charge solely for the domestic affairs and the administration of umzâr. Housing and seeing to the entertainment of the Kingdom’s guests and visitors was not one of his chores. It was handled by ladies of the noble households, led by the Queen initially, and later by Lord Fundin’s wife. Miss Oifa, in her position as Marshal of the Court is effectively fulfilling both rolls.”

“Maybe we should make things as they were,” Tukír said slowly, “Give the care of guests and dignitaries back to the noble ladies. I’m sure they would be most capable of handling it. That would reduce the chores for the umzâr and free them to see solely to the domestic affairs.”

Your heart sank once more. You had suggested splitting the two areas but you were not truly happy about the idea at all. You did enjoy preparing the guest rooms to make their stay comfortable and loved planning entertainment in form of banquets and balls. You would greatly be missing it if that work would be taken off you.

“No,” the King objected immediately and rather firmly, “Miss Oifa excels in her role as hostess. Our guests have not been tended to this well in a long time. In the short while since she has taken over her azlâdu there have been nothing but compliments. The emissary of the King of Rohan specifically asked to thank the person who was in charge for decorating his rooms and give it homely touches. King Bard of Dale is more than pleased when even his daughter’s needs are not forgotten. And the envoy from the Stiffbeards was surprisingly docile after finding balb’urs at their disposal.” There was a ripple of chuckles at the King’s gentle teasing of the well-known fondness for the traditional drink of the eastern clan. “No, I don’t want any other to carry the responsibility to cater for our esteemed guests than Miss Oifa. She has shown herself to be both thoughtful and resourceful in her efforts to house them in comfort and luxury befitting their various stations. I like my visitors happy when they come into negotiations about trade and allegiance, so this is not negotiable.”

Some more chuckles and Tukír inclined his head in acknowledgment of the King’s wishes. He also had chuckled good-naturedly, so you assumed he did not take it badly to have his suggestion shot down by his Majesty himself. The Lord even shared a few quiet comments with Mistress Dûzla across the table, who laughed. “Aye,” she said loudly, her tone full of humour, “the Stiffbeards were pleased. First time ever I managed to arrange a good deal for my guild with them. Even Gvestur would have to be pleased, since it was during that visit that the one courting his daughter finally delivered his last courtship gift, after showing himself rather fickle and hesitant for a long time. I believe the wedding is soon?”

You felt your eyes go round at the comment. You had no knowledge about Gvestur’s daughter or about her courtship to a Stiffbeard from the recent envoy. All you knew about her wedding was when Gvestur insisted on the umzâr tending to the wedding guests.

“Not sure the Stiffbeard won’t regret it sooner rather than later,” Bofur mumbled next to you, under his breath, and when you glanced at him questioningly he added, “The daughter is not the pleasant sort. At all. Much like her Adad.”

Gvestur lifted his chin with pride. “Indeed. The wedding will be during the upcoming Durin’s Day festivities. Most guests will already be in the mountain, and those that come just for the occasion will see Erebor at its finest.” You couldn’t help but feel that his happiness sounded oddly forced.

“You are a braver dwarf than I,” Dûzla put in, smiling, “To invite even more folk to the mountain at a time when it’s already going to be busting out of its very seams. My own son’s wedding to a Blacklock dam a few years ago was deliberately delayed to avoid clashing with such an event. Back then I had booked every spare bed in Erebor, and even several Inns in Dale. How did you manage to accommodate all your guests on such short notice?”

 _Oh dear_. Biting your lip you ducked your head and looked at your hands.

Gvestur forced a little huff. “Well, since we’ve just heard his Majesty’s laudations of Miss Oifa, I’m sure she’ll be well capable of seeing to my daughter’s wedding guests as well ...”

His comment was met with yet another silence, this one not heavy with tension, but one laced with certain speechlessness.

“Are you saying-” Glóin began, only to be interrupted by Dís. “Do you mean to say that you intend to house your daughter’s wedding guests in Erebor’s guest wing? I was under the impression that we are at capacity?” The princess directed the question and her incredulous gaze at you.

“We are,” you mumbled, your eyes finding that spot on the table again, painfully aware that there was no way you could say this nicely. “The matter of extra guests has only been presented to me a couple of days ago. I consider it unresolved at present, your Highness.”

Dori snorted at your careful phrasing, immediately pretending it was a cough. You couldn’t blame him; you tried and failed to be as diplomatic as possible.

Thorin glared across the table, but not at the Royal Tailor. “A wedding is a joyous occasion,” the King said, rather strongly, “But I do not think it is Erebor’s responsibility to outfit it, nor to house private guests, Stiffbeards well they may be. Gvestur, I would thank you to not abuse your noble standing into pressing my Marshal of the Court and my umzâr to answer to your whims-“

“Your Majesty!”

“-the guest wing is for official guests of the mountain only. You, Gvestur, have more riches than you could possibly spend in a lifetime. With large areas of the mountain still desolate and unoccupied I’m sure you can use some of those riches to hire experts to have them cleared and outfitted to suit your guest’s needs-“

“But your Majesty-“

“And as I am well aware that a wedding is a huge expense, especially if it is your only child and a daughter, should you indeed find yourself short on immediate coin you can always resort to parting with some items of the exquisite collection of ancient artwork you are well known of possessing. I understand it is not easy, having it just done myself when I had an elaborate golden and gem-studded desk melted down and the raw materials sold to finance the complete refurbishment of the umzâr’s azlâdu, their workstations, as well have them outfitted with new clothing. You might remember that desk, Gvestur? It was one of the elaborate gifts King Thror’s council had commissioned to celebrate the centenary of his ruling. A mighty generous gift, no doubt, though as it was commissioned at a time when Ovdari paid the umzâr from his own coffers it was hardly appropriate. As a gift that has been created on the backs of others is not something I could ever appreciate, no matter how exquisite the craft, I took the liberty to dispose of it as I saw fit, to the benefit of my people. I am sure you can find a piece or two in your collection to do the same, if needed.”

As Thorin fell silent, eyes blazing, Gvestur’s face was a stony mask.

“Well,” Balin spoke up, pointedly turning to Ori who continued taking down the minutes, “Please note that his Majesty once more reinforces the rule that private guests are not to be housed in the kingdom’s guest wing. An application would have to be made if those private guests are believed to also hold an official function, which will be decided on a case to case basis. But we digress from the point at hand. The King has expressed his wish for Miss Oifa to continue her work as Marshal of the Court in the same function as she is now, meaning she continues to be in charge for Erebor’s domestic workforce as well as for the organization of official visits to the mountain. We are yet to find a solution to deal with the impending shortage of umzâr to provide all the services they are tasked with to our satisfaction. Miss Oifa’s suggestion was to consider a communal service of sorts. That is, I believe, what we should focus our attention on. ”

Gvestur lifted himself up and made a show of sitting proud and straight, but his face turned from stony to flushed after the official rebuke and the undertone in his voice was one of seething loathing. “Even if Miss Oifa personally is so ... heavily endorsed by his Majesty himself, let’s not forget that we still speak about the umzâr. They may be unique to Erebor and do a great many things in the mountain, but they do not add to the glory of the Kingdom, nor its wealth. As such I cannot see how anybody would want to be associated with the likes of them-“

“Fossilized dumbass,” Bofur muttered next to you and you hurriedly swallowed an amused huff, despite your disbelief that the noble dwarf just could not let go of his arrogance.

“-no dwarrow of solid upbringing and with a certain pride would want to be forced to work alongside those whose lives and deeds are rather inconsequential-“

Glóin audibly groaned at the words.

“-and this meeting is giving them far more credence than their mediocre lives and their basic service to the mountain deserves-“

Mistress Dûzla rolled her eyes and shook her head.

Thinking of your parents you felt anger rise at Gvestur’s words. How dare he imply you did not have a solid upbringing and no pride?

“Maybe we should just stop working if we’re so inconsequential,” you heard yourself saying rather forcefully and felt your face heat up when all eyes zoomed in on you. Stunned looks slowly melted into amusement. Bofur next to you made a highly entertained sound in his throat and Bombur didn’t even bother to hide his grin. As miners they’d be well used to talk like that.

No, after carefully gazing around you realized that there were mostly intrigued and friendly expressions. Only Gvestur’s eyes narrowed coldly. But you did not avert your gaze. Nor did you duck your head or fold in to yourself. No. You would not give this pompous dwarf, who already gave Ovdari grief, that satisfaction. You were Oifa. A dam that could stand proud. More than what Gvestur could say, noble lineage and wealth or not. You cleared your throat. “I mean, we could just close off the laundry and the mending rooms, stop going on ash duty and no longer mop the public corridors. Even with the considerable accumulation the glass orbs will sooner or later run out and Erebor will look vastly different without golden lights. Linen and bedsheets will no longer be able to get changed and everyone’s dirty laundry will be piling up. I’d say it probably be around three weeks before the mess is really showing and things become a bit more uncomfortable.” You nodded towards the side tables laden with platters of food and tankards of ale and goblets of wine. “Maybe we should practice today when we’re done here, each of us grabbing something and bringing it to the kitchen. Why should the umzâr alone be doing this kind of work, inconsequential as they are?”

Gvestur balled his fists. “You insolent little-“

“Language!” Dori’s voice was hard and threatening.

Gvestur flared his nostrils like one of Dain’s war boars and visible ground his teeth to reign his anger in. “The title of Marshal of the Court and the King’s protection has addled your brains, giving you the indication that you have some sort of power, maybe even instilled hope in you to find yourself in a better position, away from the dirty grind of your azlâdu. “

“No,” you said firmly, “Certainly not. I see no reason for myself to complain, not about my wage, nor about my rights, my workload or my treatment. I have no intention of leaving the azlâdu; even if was not given the position of Marshal of the Court I would not leave it. I am proud of continuing the work my grandfather began. This is not about me. This is about finding ways to successfully continue the azlâdu.”

Gvestur grumbled something, causing the noble next to him to let out a dirty snigger, whereas Tukír on his other side sat up abruptly and glared at the Lord, his expression turning from disgust to anger. “Watch your tongue,” he barked.

Gvestur waved him off. “Please,” he said with a smug smirk, “strikes have been threatened by a variety of groups over time, the miners even on more than one occasion. They have never been successful. If our Marshal of the Court here keeps talking this way the only thing she’ll accomplish is to see herself in fetters for disturbing the peace of the mountain. You don’t seriously think that his Majesty will allow Erebor to fall under a pile of dirt and ashes, after he personally has dug it out from the filth of a dragon? As if our noble King would consider sleeping in sheets that are not fresh or count his breeches to make sure he has enough to last the week because there is no laundry being done?” The noble Lord chuckled, but only a couple others were chiming in, sensing that the Lord was walking a tightrope.

Truly hating to be dismissed so blatantly gave you the courage to continue. “From what I have learned about his Majesty I think he will fare far better with sleeping rough for a while than some others, Mylord. And I wager, without being presumptuous, he'll be not particularly bothered having to ration his breeches for a couple of weeks.”

Gvestur didn’t even bother to hide his contempt. “It is good you’re not charged to speak to our dignitaries but only dress their rooms, with a mouth such as this. Insulting as it is, it still is only the talk of someone who knows no craft. Tell me, Miss Oifa, why do you think Mahal has chosen to not gift you with enough talent to learn a craft and not labour for a wage in a dirty occupation that is not recognized by any of our noble traditions.”

You bristled, balling your fists, truly vexed now. “I refuse to believe our Maker would be so cruel to withhold the talent to learn a craft form any dam or dwarf. It is a skill instilled in all dwarrow and I know I have that skill, too. It is however, a matter of wakening it. Unfortunately, I have never had the chance to explore the various crafts or even the luxury to decide what craft I want to learn. I wish I had. After Ovdari fell with Erebor and my Adad survived with heavy burns that plagued him for the rest of his life times were not easy, even in the peace of the Iron Hills. While my parents taught me all they knew, immediate survival was more pressing than learning a craft, and it is too late for it now. However, as I am not one to dwell on things that cannot be changed, I have made my peace with it. But I refuse to be belittled for being denied those chances in my past. There has not been a day in my life I have not striven to give my best, regardless of the place I was in or the challenges in front of me. That will be the case until the day I enter Mahal's halls. There is much more to a person than just their craft. I am confident, that our Maker will be pleased with me. For that is the essence of dwarrow: To fill our lives with deeds that ultimately fill Mahal with satisfaction and pride for his creation. I do not believe his delight would only include dwarrow with Mastery beads in their braids. I do not think he would be that petty.”

Gvesturs’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head and his face was turning red with anger. He was on his feet in a flash. “I have never heard such blasphemous ramblings-“

You didn’t hear the rest.

Because you blocked out the voice of the obnoxious dwarf and let your eyes gaze up at Dwalin, the pull to look at him too strong to resist any longer. He positively beamed at you, actually grinning like a loon, and he returned your gaze with such obvious fondness and _pride_ that it made a great bubble of fuzzy warmth raise up inside of you.

“I quite agree with Miss Oifa,” Dûzla said at that moment, talking over Gvestur’s outburst, and your eyes darted to her, surprised. The dam smiled at you.

“Oh, aye, the lass is right,” Dori added next to you, followed by Bofur’s “Without a doubt” and Glóin’s “Couldn’t agree more.” Bombur nodded with a smile, so did Fárni, Balin, Dís, most of the Guild Masters and several of the noble Lords.

Even Tukír nodded thoughtfully. “A lot of insight and wisdom is in your words, Miss Oifa.” He turned to Gvestur, a smug little grin barely hidden underneath his beard. “I’ve always thought a strike would be rather enlightening. Seeing your conduct here today, Gvestur, I would worry, if I were you. Because I think you might be very much at risk of losing your personal servants and maids if they hear that their services are not seen as very worthy. They might wish to rather dedicate their time to the kingdom, in a role in which they are treated well and fairly.” He chuckled. “Maybe the umzâr’s staff problem is solved sooner than we expect.”

Mistress Dûzla spoke, her voice ringing with mirth. “Aye, I’ve always striven to take good care of any under my charge, no matter if they are my own blood, my apprentices or the Master’s under my guidance. Apart from the fact that it’s the right thing to do, it is disrespectful and arrogant, and it only breeds discontent.”

“You would agree with this nonsense, Tukír? You, with a noble lineage going back to the First Age?” Gvestur asked, utterly floored, sounding unsure for the first time.

Tukír waved a hand dismissively. “Aye, my house is ancient. Yet we would not have survived the turmoil throughout the ages if we hadn’t learned to adapt. I and mine have always had a nose for those times when it was necessary to rethink our ways, to be open to changes and willing to fit ourselves into a new situation. My gut tells me that this,” he gestured into your direction, “is one of those times, as small and insignificant in the big scheme of things as an event it may seem to be at this point in time. I am more than willing to apply myself to finding a solution that is to everyone’s satisfaction.” He bowed his head politely in the direction of the King. “I am at your service, your Majesty.” Then his gaze fell on you. “And yours, Maggarûna.”

Your eyes nearly popped out of your head at the honorific.

“You cannot be serious!” Gvestur nearly wailed.

“It seems,” Dís idly interjected, gesturing around the room, “That most here find your way of thinking a bit ... outdated.”

“But it’s how things always have been done-“ Gvestur protested.

“And it is high time that they are being changed,” Thorin interjected firmly, silencing the noble dwarf. “I am the King. But Erebor is much more than just my kingdom. It is my home. A home I have yearned to come back to for long, long years. Not only for myself, but also for my family, for my people. All the years away from the Lonely Mountain have given me a great deal of bitterness, but a quest in the company of only twelve, a wizard and one hobbit from the Shire has taught me in barely six months that no amount of treasure is ever going to be more precious than honesty, loyalty and willing hearts. I will not ignore the ideas and advice of anyone in my Kingdom who shows those traits. _You_ might not like Miss Oifa’s opinions, but they are important to _me_. Let’s not forget: it’s not that long ago that we’ve had to discover how some amongst us have been downtrodden, misused and abused in the cruelest ways. Not long ago have we buried innocents.” Thorin’s voice became especially serious and he spoke very precisely, a clear warning in his tone. “Let it be clear that I will not tolerate anyone in my Kingdom to go down a path even remotely similar to that of that nameless dwarf ever again. That refers to deeds that can be considered callus or cruel, but it also refers to words that give even the slightest indication of willfully causing pain or suffering, mentally or physically. Any that conduct themselves in a way that I will deem such will feel my wroth.”

Your heart had first swelled and then shrunk into a tight ball at Thorin’s words. _Home_. You wanted a home, longed for it. You could not imagine Thorin’s life away from Erebor. The heavy weight of the responsibility he had to shoulder, the suppressing hopelessness he would have had to fight through again and again, the strain of going on a quest that nobody believed in but an odd assortment of dwarrow and a hobbit, a member of a different race, who chose to follow a King-in-Exile when so many of his own peoples didn’t find it in himself.

The silence that followed was weighty, but in a good way.

“But, your Majesty,” Gvestur tried again.

“I think, Gvestur, that all has been said,” Dís interrupted sternly, glaring at the noble dwarf.

He swallowed the rest of his words and let his gaze sweep left and right, to see if any of his fellow nobles were still standing with him.

When none met his eye he stood, visibly shaking, bowing to the King and turning to leave, in a swish of his coat.

“This meeting is concluded,” Balin's voice rang out as soon as he was out the door. “Any that wish to participate in a task force to find a solution regarding the umzâr please put your names forward. We’ll evaluate the applicants and his Majesty will assign positions as he sees fit.”

Black spots danced in your vision. Unknowingly you moved a hand to clutch at your chest, near your heart. Breathing deeply you prayed you’d be able to hold it together while you heard chairs being pulled back, low rumbling conversations and feet making for the door. It fell shut with a thud a little while later.

You didn’t feel so good. Breathing deep you squeezed your eyes shut for a moment, fighting the urge to be sick. You must have gone mad, making a speech like that! Basically insulting the whole of the Nobility of Erebor, but possibly the most important dwarf of them all personally!

"You alright, Oifa," the King asked, his baritone calm.

"Quite, your Majesty, thank you for a-asking," you stammered. When you managed to open your eyes after a few more breaths you were surprised to find all the dwarrow of the Company still present, Fárni and Princess Dís, that had remained, looking at you with kind faces.

Balin chuckled. “You sure caused quite a stir, lassie,” he said, sounding terribly pleased as if it was what he had wanted all along.

Dwalin's eyes glittered and he smiled at you; shivering, you focused on his dimple.

"A strike?" the King said mildly, scratching his chin, "Quite the suggestion."

"It ... it seemed like a good idea ... at the time, your Majesty," you mumbled, looking at your shaking fingers and closing your eyes once more. _What had you been thinking?_ Taking a deep breath you prepared yourself for a good scolding. Blood rushed in your ears, making you deaf to anything around you.

“I quite like the idea,” Thorin’s voice said, but surely you must have misheard.

“Why am I not surprised,” Glóin grumbled, but there was a chuckle in his voice.

“Per-lease,” Dís spoke, her voice ringing with amusement, “We all know Thorin’s a rebel at heart.”

You shivered, not sure whether you felt warm or cold.

Suddenly, large hands engulfed yours, their warmth seeping into your very bones.

You sighed gratefully.

It felt so _good_. Those large hands gave a little squeeze and moved away. You frowned at the loss and opened your eyes. A cup of water stood before of you.

"Have a drink, Oifa" the King said from across the table, smiling benignly, "And then we shall discuss who’s going to be in that task force with you."

You looked up in shock at Thorin's words, watching a grinning Dwalin stepping back around the table to stand behind the King.

Realizing it had been _Dwalin's hands_ holding yours and _Dwalin_ who brought you the water, you blushed, clearing your throat and sitting up straight in an attempt to hide it.

Balin began reading out names. It turned out to be the majority of the council.

Narrowing the list down to a reasonable number with representatives from the noble Lords, the guilds, the guards, the treasury, the umzâr and the Company took surprisingly little time. Tukír’s was the first name to be written down in the final selection, naturally, followed by Mistress Dûzla for the Guilds, together with Bofur and Dori. Jarspur and one of Dwalin’s Fabarâl’s for the guards, Aggi for the treasury, and Gimli, and …

You couldn’t take in any more words, still stuck on when Balin called the very idea of a strike a _tremendously good idea_ , which nearly had your eyes bulge out of your head. Vaguely you heard Dís speak, and Fárni, both supporting the plan, followed most emphatically by Bombur. You tried to follow the discussion, you really did. How could you not, it only happened because of your crazy suggestion after all. But the words sounded muffled in your years from the blood rushing through your veins and because you felt Dwalin’s eyes on you, felt the pull. You tried to fight it, but after a long, long, very long moment (or two) you gave up.

There was no point, curiosity won out and you couldn’t help but glance up at the tall dwarf.

Your eyes locked and you could hardly breathe with the intense sincerity of his gaze.

He met your eyes steadily, as if he’d been waiting for you to look at him. And he looked back at you with such warmth, with pride even, and he smiled and showed that dimple ... clearly utterly pleased and thrilled.

Holding his gaze you felt your heart melt and your own mouth curl up.

And you smiled back at him.

 

= . = . =

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Office of the Marshal of the Court of the Queen of England is an actual thing and dedicated to the organizing of guests and dignitaries. For my story I have given the Master (Izrikruk) of said office (azlâdu) also the responsibility to oversee the domestic servants.  
> Seneschal: A term that was used in medieval times for the Majordomo of a great house: he would have been in charge for domestic affairs and the administration of servants.  
> Maggarûna – She who continues to accomplish/to do/to act/to perform  
> Fabarâl - General - (“forward-mover”) - Commands each gangbuh (about 500 soldiers)  
> Gabilgathol (Khuzdul: gabil-great gathol-fortress) Belegost (Sindarin: great city) - lay in the north central part of the Ered Luin, guarding one of the only passes through the mountain range. It was home to Khazâd in the First Age. It is said to have been founded sometime during the Years of the Trees. At the end of the First Age, Belegost was ruined in the War of Wrath, when the hosts of Valinor and of Morgoth met in Beleriand, subsequently tearing the land asunder and changing its landscape. The majority of dwarrow that survived the war fled from Gabilgathol to Khazad-dûm.  
> Id’adshân – the Service
> 
> Phew, this chapter has been hard and has been edited umpteenth and a half times, at least. Just a few points I’d like to make:  
> \- as a society in a world that knows for sure deities exist I believe dwarrow would by an large construct their lives and their very thinking around that very knowledge (in case you were annoyed with all the references to Mahal). They are also an old society (the seven fathers were created before the elves, then slept, and woke for good immediately after the Elves) and they live long lives (even if they are not immortal), which means that it’s understandable if many would find it hard to adjust to a changing world. As it does change, outside and ultimately inside their mountains and caverns, there would be a divide between hardcore traditionalists and those of more tolerant mindsets. The key is a willingness to step back and examine an issue from all sides and finding a solution that is best, not one that pleases individuals most. As in our own real world some are better at this than others :)  
> \- I have a tendency to put a lot of thought and effort into everything I do, even if it seems mediocre to others and often leaves me bone tired. When I do hit the proverbial wall I would very much wish for a King on my side who’d just tell everyone to shove it and follow my lead. Go Thorin!  
> \- Names are a pain. I have an ever growing collection of names to use for my fics but am rather stingy using them. Hence the naming of only a few characters in this chapter, while I deliberately left others in the ‘dark’. I hope I still managed to bring across that there was a large group of people in this Council meeting, all of them important, but only some of them matter.  
> \- I did not go into details of what measures could be implemented to solve the umzâr problem. I feel it would get out of hand for this fic, and the focus is on our little love birds. If you wish to wrap your brains around that problem just think of some of the services your local council provides for you, then compare that to the Middle Ages, throw in taxes/council fees/politics and public opinion, add some beads of accomplishment and you’ll be almost there ;)


	17. What A Smile Can Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally ...

= - = - =

 

 

When Dwalin followed his King from the room he couldn’t wipe the grin from his face. She was brave, his Oifa, bright as a forge fire. Standing up to Gvestur, the old fart, with dignity and pride. Mahal, how her eyes had sparkled when she - very diplomatically - told the pompous dwarf where to go to set his pompous arse. And not only that: her words also had deeply impressed the majority of the assembled Full Council, Guild Masters and Lords alike; not because they were bold, but because they were the truth.

And on top of that she had been a vision. Dwalin made a mental note to personally thank Dori for his efforts, because the dress the Royal Tailor had fashioned for her suited her exceptionally well, the make of it expertly chosen to emphasize her slender shoulders and long neck, and the colour to bring out the shine in her eyes and the golden hues in her wheatcoloured hair. And she had taken extra care to very elaborately weave garnets through her braids. Her whole appearance reminded in no way of the dam that cleaned hallways with her braid tightly tucked away under her coif. And the best part was that Oifa didn’t dress up to purposefully create a certain image of herself, but because she simply liked to make herself look presentable. And, by Mahal, didn’t she have a fabulous hand for that!

Dwalin had to think back to the defeated little dam that had stood before them on that first day after she had mistaken his room for hers. And the one that had sat on her own the day they sorted the umzâr’s belongings, when she was clutching a piece of clothing before discarding it. Of her heart wrenching expression when he told her and Fárni about their grim discovery. When she was silent and still in her sorrow in the crypt. And the day she refused Dain’s gold.

It was a complete turnaround, and not only regarding her appearance, but also in the way she thought about herself.

And could it be? After fleeing from him like a mouse would from a cat for months now, could she have accepted not only that his words were true - there was so much more to dwarrow than their craft - but also that she indeed might have tender feelings for him? As his meddlesome family and friends had said all along?

Of course they had known what she was going to propose: Balin had read out her suggestions regarding the umzâr’s azlâdu to the Company at dinner the evening prior. His brother had been very impressed, which wasn’t something that happened often, for Balin was a very hard dwarf to impress. They were all aware that it would cause a stir, especially with the traditionalists. That Gvestur dug his own pit by with the plans for his daughter’s wedding was highly entertaining, although the fact that he was attempting to hold a private event on the backs of the umzâr and - ultimately - the coffers of the Crown was not. Thorin’s scathing rebuke and threat of reprimand had been more than justified: it was no more than half a year ago that they buried dams and pebbles because one dwarf abused his position and his power. Cleary, Gvestur didn’t think his doings were in any way similar, but they were. At least the rest of the Council did get the message, Dwalin was sure, judging by their unhappy faces at Gvestur’s conduct. It seemed the pompous dwarf had isolated himself a great deal today. Whether he would adjust his behaviour accordingly or whether he would maneuver himself even more into a tight spot, only the future would tell. But they would watch him closely.

“She is quite something,” Thorin muttered as he strode down the hallway in his usual purposeful way, the corners of his eyes crinkling amused as he glanced over his shoulder at his personal guard. “A strike! I haven’t had this much fun in a Council meeting in ages. If you don’t seek her out later today to present your bead I will personally drag you to her and lock you together in a room so neither can escape the other and you are forced to talk.”

Dwalin huffed in annoyance and rolled his eyes, but he smiled under his beard. Bloody meddling!

But no, there would be no need to drag him to Miss Oifa: after that smile she gave him his way forward was crystal clear.

She seemed to have done a great deal of thinking and soul searching. And she had come to the conclusion that she was worthy, in her own way. He’d definitely be putting his heart forward and hopefully, in return, win hers.

 

= - = - =

 

The whirlwind in your head didn’t want to settle down.

What a ridiculously nerve wrecking day it had been!

Not only did you find the courage to give your suggestions regarding your azlâdu, but you also spoke back against a Lord of Erebor and threatened for the umzâr to lay down their work in order to prove how much work they actually did. The King had not laughed at you and he did not throw you out of the room. Instead he complimented you on the idea and instructed you to lead the meetings of the new committee, founded for that very purpose only.

Lord Tukir was right: it was history in the making.

And it was ridiculously nerve wrecking.

But none of it mattered.

Because the only thing you could see in your mind was Dwalin’s expression as you smiled at him. Your resolve to keep your distance from him had near broken down at that moment and you had to grasp the edges of your seat to keep yourself from closing the distance between you and throwing yourself into his arms. Rubbing your fingers against each other you still felt the warmth of his large hands over yours. And the caress of his intense gaze engulfed your whole being like a warm fur.

You sat on your bed for a long time after Jarspur had accompanied you back to your room, mulling over everything that had happened and trying to steady your breathing and find your bearing once more.

With the day as good as lost due to the Full Council meeting there was no point in doing any more work just now. You decided you would wait until after the evening meal before retiring early and instead be getting up several hours before the first bell to give the floors and doors in the Royal Wing a thorough wipe down.

And until then you could spend another hour or so in the library to read up on Gondor, to help you determine what could be done to make a delegation from Minas Tirith feel comfortable. Directing your feet across the vast staircases you nearly stumbled when Princess Dis suddenly walked in your path. "Oifa!” The Princess smiled brightly. “Could you bring this to Dwalin?" She unceremoniously pushed a wad of parchment into your arms. "I was on my way to him, but I have been called to the Hall of the Architect’s Guild regarding an issue that requires my attention."

Before you even could say anything, Dís smiled at you "Thank you, my dear," and was gone down the corridor.

 

= - = - =

 

"He's not here, lass," Balin told you with a friendly smile when you knocked at the door of his and Dwalin's apartment in the Royal Wing, after you unsuccessfully sought him out in his office. "I believe he’s going to sleep in his room at the Guard's tonight, he's planned on doing some midnight rounds."

With slow steps you made your way to the Guard’s Quarters.

_To Dwalin's room._

Ignoring the butterflies you reluctantly walked down the corridor, relying on your own guards to guide you in the right direction. They lead you around another corner and a few doors down, pointing at the relevant door and taking up positions in the corridor. You thanked them and approached said door, your stomach dropping.

_Wonderful, just wonderful._

Remembering your panicked escape that one morning all these months ago you eyed the door to the room in question with a frown.

If you were not mistaken, this was the very room you had wrongly stumbled into back then.

And woken up in a bed under furs the next morning.

The morning after Nathi's arrest.

You had never mentioned it to anyone, and you sure hoped Dwalin would never find out you had slept in his bed and drooled on his mattress. The very thought was thoroughly mortifying. He’d be disgusted, would never smile at you ever again.

After today, that would be nearly impossible to take.

 _Best get this over with_.

Taking a deep breath, you knocked. "Enter," came his deep voice from within, giving you goosebumps.

You opened the door, carefully balancing the pile of parchment on one arm.

"Oifa," he said a little surprised but immediately smiling, standing from his chair behind his desk and coming towards you. "Here, let me help," he reached out to stabilize your elbow and closed the door behind you.

Swallowing, you glanced around the room shyly.

There were still furs on the bed.

You blushed. "Eh, Dís-," you began, shaking your head at your lack of manners, " _Her Highness_ asked me to bring you these."

He took the parchments with a little resigned sigh. "Thank you." Then he looked at you with his sharp eyes, studying your expression and grinned. "So," he said rather lazily, "You do remember this room."

It was not a question.

You froze. Wiping your hands on your skirts you gave a small nod. "I am really sorry-"

"You do know that it was that night that all of it started?" he asked suddenly, interrupting you.

You frowned. "All of it?" You were confused.

"You, stumbling in here, falling in my bed, too exhausted to even notice you were in the wrong room, that I was _right there_ ..."

Paling, you opened your mouth to apologize again, but he stepped right in front of you and looked down at you with so much fondness that you forgot what you had wanted to say.

"All of it?" you finally mumbled, frantically trying to get back on topic.

He hummed. "You said a few words to our Maker, before you fell asleep. Do you remember?"

Slowly, you shook your head with a jerk, partly in an attempt to hide the shiver that ran through your body at the sound of his deep voice and his proximity, and partly because you truly did not remember, although you often addressed the Maker before you went to sleep.

Dwalin gave you a small smile. "You thanked him for the stone over your head and under your feet. You asked him to keep the King and his family and the line of Durin hale and happy. You also said if you ever had to polish another piece of silver, you would scream."

You grimaced, embarrassed.

And then you startled, because he reached out and very carefully took your hands into his.

"And then you said," he continued, becoming very serious, "You would take it gladly if it would make Nathi not notice you. You asked for Mahal's blessings on Vira and her pebble. You asked him to ensure your parents and your brother would not see you as you were then: dirty and haggard, sad and lonely. The only things you asked for yourself was a bowl of hot water to be able to at least wash your face in the morning, and a smile from someone, _anyone_ , because you said you didn't think you had the strength to go on without it for much longer, even for the glory of Erebor."

Dwalin slowly lifted your hands and kissed first the one, then the other.

Your breath hitched in your throat and you stared at him with wide eyes.

What ... what was he doing? His lips were so soft _. I hope he doesn’t stop._

"That night," he continued lowly, "changed everything. Because as soon as you fell asleep, I left the room and went to look for Nathi. I found him assaulting the dam in his office. I threw him in the dungeon. And the investigation in his ... conduct ... began. And after we had listened to so many near broken dams and dwarves telling us their tale, you walked in. I recognized you instantly, even though I merely had a glimpse at you in the dark. The way you held yourself that day: you were amazing. You are amazing. A good and decent person. A beautiful and warmhearted dam. And I have done my damndest to make sure you have plenty of hot water to wash yourself whenever your heart so desires. And I have made it my mission to smile at you every day."

He turned your hands and kissed your work-worn and rough palms.

You had trouble breathing and your knees felt weak. What? _What is he saying?_ He can’t mean that. He was toying with you. Surely.

"Now," he continued, "I have been patient. Dís tells me I am an idiot. She says I should have asked you ages ago. So does Thorin. And my brother. And Dain for that matter. In fact, after you refused his payment he said if he wasn't happily married already he'd woo you himself. But I didn't think it was right just yet. I needed to wait."

You blinked. "Wait? For what?" you whispered.

"For you to smile back at me. For you to trust me enough to let down your guard and smile back at me," he said, smiling down at you.

You looked into his grey eyes and at his dimple that was so well hidden under his bushy beard, and never showed, unless he smiled like that.

Like he was smiling right now. _For you._

You couldn't help it. Nodding, you smiled back.

You did trust him. There was nobody else you trusted as much as you trusted him.

He hummed contently before he straightened himself. "Oifa, daughter of Ove, son of Ovdari," he began very formally, his warm voice sending another shiver down your spine, "Will you allow me the great honour of courting you?"

Your eyes filled with tears. _That can’t be right._ How could he want you? Surely he was mistaken.

“Why?” was all you managed to blurt out, blinking furiously, trying to clear your vision.

“Why?” he repeated, frowning in confusion, momentarily taken aback. When you nodded his features relaxed and the corners of his eyes crinkled. “I don’t know,” he said tenderly, lifting a hand to cup your cheek, gently moving his fingers to stroke the soft hairs of what little fluff you had growing there, “I cannot explain it. I am not a dwarf of words, unlike my brother. All I know is that I want to be in your presence. That I feel better, happier, more complete, when I am in your presence. That the highlight of my days is when I get a glimpse of your beautiful face, when my ears catch the sound of your voice.” He bent his head and took your chin gently between his thumb and forefinger to tilt your face up a bit to meet his eyes. “And when you look at me my heart skips a beat and my toes curl up and I have trouble remembering my own name.” His voice went impossibly deep and you shivered again. “And when you smiled at me today - finally - I felt like skipping down the hallway and singing a song, ready to make an utter fool out of myself in front of the whole mountain, just to show how happy I am. And I dearly hope you grant me permission to court you, because I want nothing more than to show you - and everyone else - how much I _adore_ everything about you. How much I love you.”

You couldn't speak, lost in his touch, in his voice, in his eyes.

He _loved_ you.

Every word he said was beyond explanation.

But hadn’t your Amad always said that love couldn’t be explained?

And didn’t you have exactly the same feelings when it came to Dwalin? Didn’t your heart skip a beat every time you saw him, your toes curl up in your boots and every time you saw his smile it left you so mesmerized that you forgot all else?

Hoping he’d understand, even if you couldn’t find the words just now, you nodded.

_Vehemently._

"Oifa, Amrâlimê," he whispered, moving to wipe off a few tears when they spilled over with a gentle finger. He pulled you close and kissed your forehead. There was so much tenderness in his gesture.

Hesitating only very briefly you stepped closer, burrowing into him, wrapping your arms around his waist, relishing in the warmth of his strong body.

His broad hands gently stroked over your back before wrapping around you and holding you tight.

After a long while you lifted your head and looked up into his eyes, searching, trying to read his very soul. To make sure that this was not a jest, but that he truly meant it.

He seemed to understand and simply smiled down at you, without letting you go.

And you smiled back. Then your eyes darted to his dimple that deepened as his smile widened. Shyly you lifted a hand to touch it.

When the tips of your fingers made contact with Dwalin’s cheek and his beard his eyes widened a fraction and he froze.

You hesitated in your movement, taking in the intense look on his face. Deciding to be brave you placed your full hand on his cheek. His beard hair was just as thick and wiry as you had imagined it to be, but also in an intriguing sort of way soft.

His arms around you tightened.

“It’s the dimple,” you whispered and he lifted an eyebrow questioningly. You smiled at the confused curiousness in his eyes. “It’s your dimple,” you said again, more confident, while the tip of your forefinger rubbed over it. “You’re rarely showing it. Only when you smile. When you smile like that. When you smile at me.”

An understanding chuckle rumbled through his broad chest and his smile deepened. And the dimple.

Then he carefully extracted himself from you and took your face into his hands. The briefest touch of his lips to yours let you shiver again before he straightened abruptly and took your hand.

“We need to go,” he said, pulling you gently towards the door.

“Go where?” you asked, confused, but following him as he lead you out and down the corridor, past the guards who smirked when they saw your entwined hands.

“You’re dismissed,” he told them on his way, and explained to you over his shoulders, “To the others. No way I can braid my bead into your hair without the Company present. They’ll want to celebrate. And finally they can quit their meddling.”

“Meddling?” you blushed. Did they all know?

“Aye,” he said, grinning down at you as he dragged you along, “Haven’t you noticed?”

Thinking of all of Fárni’s remarks about how Dwalin would be the one to help you if you were stuck with work, about Bofur and his sly little comments about Dwalin’s grump, about Glóin’s constant stories of Dwalin’s life in Ered Luin, how the King consistently showed up in meetings he didn’t have to be present for and how Dis sent you to Dwalin’s room tonight you felt your blush deepen and you couldn’t help it but break into laughter. A deep belly laugh that burst forth out of nowhere and bubbled out of you pure and clear.

Dwalin stopped abruptly then, and turned to look at you, his eyes bright and simmering with a sudden passionate intensity.

You ran into him, nearly bouncing off his broad chest, and tried to steady yourself by clutching to him with your free hand, breathless, the laugher still in your throat. You couldn’t quite remember the last time you had laughter like that; it felt good, giving you a sense of being free and young and _happy_.

Dwalin’s expression was as awed and mesmerized as that of a dwarfling who just saw his first gem. You couldn’t quite make sense of it, despite your mirth.

Blinking a little confused but still smiling you asked, “What ... what did I do?”

Dwalin let out a deep breath in whoosh. “Your laugh,” he said and his voice was low and husky. He pointed a broad finger at your face. “You just laughed and it has been the sweetest sound I have ever heard. Mahal, Oifa, you have no idea-“And he leaned down to press his lips against yours, swallowing his own words, and yours.

You forgot your name.

And his.

And time lost all meaning.

When the haze cleared you had one hand in his beard and the other arm wound around his broad neck while one of his hands cupped your cheek, the other rested on your hip.

He cleared his throat, eyes blazing, smile as wide as the mountain. “The Company, now,” he ordered huskily, and turned to tug you down the corridor once more.

You followed, gladly, laughing again.

 

 

= - = - =

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you go, story finished. I am doing a little happy dance. It took far longer than I thought but I am very proud of myself that I persevered and didn’t start publishing other multi-chapter stories I’m working on just because the muse for this one needed a little wrangling.  
> The first chapter was the first scene that I had in my head and what started as a vague idea (because who is doing the work in a mountain of several thousand occupants?) turned rather more complicated than I thought. But it’s a love story above all, and there’s a happy ending, because that’s how love stories ought to be, at least in my fiction land.  
> Let me know, did it end as you wished/hoped?  
> Thanks to everyone who kept reading and stuck by me and left kudos and comments. Means a lot. You’re the best xx


End file.
